


All That (Simon/Garfunkel)

by OnTheRoadSoFar



Category: Simon & Garfunkel
Genre: 60s slash, Angst, Art Garfunkel - Freeform, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Music, Paul Simon - Freeform, Paul Simon/Art Garfunkel - Freeform, Simon/Garfunkel - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 09:52:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11056491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnTheRoadSoFar/pseuds/OnTheRoadSoFar
Summary: In the wake of their successful reunion concert in Central Park, Paul and Art, each in his own way, reminisce about being fifteen and falling in love for the first time. Art's POV.Expect lots of 50's fun and teen angst.





	All That (Simon/Garfunkel)

**Author's Note:**

> I made it all up. Most of it, anyway.

"Artie? What do you want to do after high school?"

"I don't know. Queens or Columbia, I guess."

"How very sensible."

******

Maybe it was something his friend had said, or hadn't said; it could have been the way the dull blue light of the city toned his hair and face and eyes as he talked. Perhaps it was feelings of excitement still lingering from earlier tonight, a kind of belated adrenaline rush, a sudden sense of long-awaited achievement. Or maybe it was something else entirely. Whatever it was, Art had definitely felt butterflies in his stomach just now. Not a lot, mind you, just a tiny little flutter of silently frantic wings somewhere deep - or, on second thoughts, not so deep - inside of him. 

And he didn't like it one bit. 

Because whatever fast excuses his mind was making up at the moment, he was fooling nobody. He knew those butterflies. The rest of his body remembered them right away. They had nothing to do with bright eyes or successful gigs. Oh, no, not these - they were a unique breed of butterflies that, if possible, should be avoided at all costs. They disguised themselves as honest, benevolent, lovey-dovey creatures with innocent intentions up until the poor soul whose body they had so ruthlessly invaded found out, much too late, that they could not be trusted. In fact, far from it. They had brought Art nothing but misery in the past, on more than one occasion. Boy, what a lot of misery they had brought him - well, with a few, brief moments of utter bliss in between, of course. But he did best not to remember those moments, especially now when the little tingling bastards had somehow found their way back into the pit of his tummy after years of hibernation, putting him on immediate alert. And it had been such a lovely evening, too - for the most part, anyway. Life was being unfair yet again, Art concluded dramatically. 

"Are you even listening to me? What are you looking at?" 

"I think you're right." Right? About what? What was he agreeing with? 

"Right about what? Do you need a glass of water or something? You look a little confused, man." Paul had stopped looking out the window towards the city and the park and was staring straight at Art with a pair of less than concerned eyes. He was tired, too, Art decided, and so easily annoyed. 

"No, thanks, I'm fine", Art replied, "just, you know, beat."

Paul nodded knowingly, slowly. "Tell me about it. But anyway" - and here something else crept into those dark eyes, something which seemed to have a life of its own - "it really was something, wasn't it?" A genuine smile, suppressed into a small, soft tug of the corners of his mouth, lit up Paul's face in an instant.

"It really was something", Art agreed, returning the smile and failing to suppress any of it. 

Because it really had been something. 

The colorful ocean of love and cheers, stretching endlessly to the horizon, had seemed almost unreal up from the stage, in the warm, pink spotlight and the familiar September breeze. The darkening sky had silently, gradually, encompassed the two of them there, highlighting the effortless harmonies of their blended voices, and grounding Art; at least that blending, those sounds - their sound - had felt real. At least they could still get that right, if little else. The world had all but vanished around them tonight, as every pitched word and every touched string told the story of who they once were and who they would be some day. Old friends, and all that. 

And even if the same old doubt immediately clouded Art's mind as they walked backstage after the fact, Paul's ever dismissive "nonsense - didn't you hear them out there" followed by a much-needed, if too static, embrace quickly eased Art's mind somewhat and returned him to the moment: the concert had been a huge success. The whole city was buzzing with excitement because of it, and Paul had that same old self-satisfied look on his face. After changes upon changes, etc.

Art remembered to be all smiles as the whole crew got together for a quarter of an hour afterwards to congratulate each other on a job well done over popping bottles of the best champagne. Art could neither see nor hear Paul during the whole thing, even if he'd wanted to. His friend was surrounded, quite naturally, and his soft voice drowned in the general hustle and bustle of the tight-spaced room built for the occasion. One more sip of bubbles and Art was out of there. 

Paul must have seen him heading for the door, because he suddenly called Art's name, too possessively, from across the room, quieting everyone else there in the process. They then of course all preceded to turn their heads to get a good look at the deserter over the rim of their emptying glasses. 

"You leaving?" There was probably less ridicule in Paul's voice than Art seemed to detect in the moment, yet the fact remained that he was now nailed to the spot just out of reach of his escape and forced to turn around to deliver the quite obvious reply, and that without having any ready excuses to use in case of a counter-question. The brief silence quickly succumbed to more noise, however, as glasses were refilled and backs re-slapped, so a light turn of his head and a short nod was made possible - and it was almost painless, too. In response, Paul's eyes did that thing where Art couldn't really tell if he was going to get yelled at or padded on the head, but then and there, his ears ringing and his eyes burning, Art had absolutely no intention, however interesting it might be, of staying and finding out. Before he reached the second door leading outside, he was quite determined to be alone for the next few hours, preferably walking. And preferably not down streets too crowded with people and cars and life. Perhaps it was possible to slip out of the place unnoticed. Maybe if he got security to help him, he might get easier past any groups of fans that might have formed beyond the restricted area enclosures. He just needed to get out, now - surely it couldn't be so damn hard. 

It wasn't hard. A couple of guards got him out the back ten minutes later, and a private driver took him ten blocks away, where he got off quickly, full of a weird sense of desperate gratitude, and found a nearby phone booth from which he called Anne to tell her that she didn't have to wait for him or to worry - that he'd be back soon, he just needed some air. It was such a vague, over-used explanation that he found himself squeezing his eyes shut and hammering his forehead with a tight fist as he said the words, but she simply told him to be careful; she didn't question him, she never did. No distrust, no demands. She understood - she was too good for him. He’d told her every day. Perhaps he should tell her they wouldn't last long instead. Experience told him so. 

The night was mild and clear. As always, on similar occasions, Art tried to let his legs decide where he was going. Buried in a large overcoat and a black scarf, he soon became a lone, faceless figure, wandering he West Side as if there was no choice but to do so, nowhere else to go. His pace was fast, his eyes focused on the pavement one moment and lost in the distant black sky beyond the towering buildings the next. The occasional light and murmur from the houses and a few scattered restaurants and cafés distracted him from his self-indulgent reverie and kept him sane, focused. Maybe being alone just then hadn't been the best idea. Everyone always told him he shouldn't be, and he was starting to believe them. Anne was sure to be up despite what he’d told her; despite what she'd said on the phone. He knew she was waiting for him. Perhaps she would tell him that he had overreacted earlier. To what, he wasn't even sure - he just knew that his clothes had suddenly felt too tight, his mind fuzzy, and Paul's head on his shoulder, in that split-second in which Art had held him close tonight, had been so warm and gentle and reminded him so much of the first day of summer vacation or a mug of hot chocolate. 

That was when he hailed the cab and drove to Paul's city apartment, through the quiet lights of the city maze. Just like that. Impulsive - he could be that. He was that. Not that visiting Paul was something particularly unusual or exciting, of course - not these days anyway - but perhaps the circumstances were; perhaps they were different. For starters, he was uninvited, and Paul didn't enjoy unexpected company. Also, Art wasn't even sure Paul wanted to see him after tonight. Right now none of that mattered, however. Right now, he could be in charge. 

But Paul did want to see him. Or, at least he was expecting Art, which almost counted as the same thing, really. His reaction quickly restored balance to the situation. 

"I knew you'd show up - leaving like that, so typical of you, Artie." He padded Art lightly on the arm, not really smiling, and went to the kitchen to get them something to drink. Probably tea. Paul seemed to enjoy making people tea. 

The view from Paul's couch was always a revelation, especially at night, and Art never tired of it. The whole of Manhattan, like a picture framed on a wall, reached silently, proudly, towards the dark water; a web of light and steel, remote and wild. The sound of his heels on dry, windy autumn streets half an hour earlier had been as real to Art as the throbbing of his own pulse - from up here, the city now reminded him that there was a world beyond this one. A world beyond the boroughs and the bridges, beyond guitars strings and harmonies. Somewhere, anywhere, the sun was setting on unnamed streets and carefree hearts. It had to be. 

"There you go - careful. It's very hot."

"Thanks." The mug had no handle, and Art had to put it down right away, his fingers already burning. 

"God, man, how did you just carry those two like that?"

"Guitar fingers. Quite numb." Paul made a short grunting sound and took a careful sip, so full of it. 

Laughter. Good. Art could deal with that. 

"You were great tonight. I didn't get to tell you - hey, why'd you leave like that, anyway? It was kind of rude, don't you think?" 

Praise, good. Insults, good. Good, old Paul. 

"Well, you know me." It was Art's answer to everything these days. He found Paul, and Anne, and everyone else, shying away from making further comments after he'd said the words, all of them seemingly unwilling to either confirm or deny the truth of the fact. Perhaps they just didn't know. Tonight, however, Paul did. 

"Yeah, I do."

Art's brain was hard at work quickly trying to categorize Paul's answer, but to seemingly no immediate avail. There was an edge of something poignant to the slight sigh preceding the statement, something which seemed to give it an altogether different meaning. Or maybe Paul meant exactly what he was saying, yet there was no judgement or spite in the tone of his voice, no head-shaking or eye-rolling accompanying it, and no real camaraderie, either. When Paul's lips started moving again after a brief pause, Art's ears had tuned out, and a warm pounding in his head and chest had him suddenly reaching for the mug, earlier burns quite forgotten. 

And that's when he felt them, the butterflies. Those heartless, wonderful butterflies. 

"It really was something", he repeated quietly. "What a crowd, man. It was crazy."

"So crazy." Paul was smiling a little more now. Art traced the fine lines on the tan skin around his eyes with a subtle gaze, silently determining which ones were new and which had deepened. In the dim, warm light of the room, the eyes that stared back at him were as black as the night sky beyond the window. 

"What, what now?" Paul's voice was sweet and soft, pulling any traces of a question out of his words. Then he made that brief chuckling sound through his nose and shook his head, and Art made a mental check mark. "Drink your tea, Art."

Art did, and the conversation continued almost without any tension. Soon, both of them were eagerly contributing to the narrative of tonight, commenting on their own and the other's performance, on the band, the setting and on the early reactions on the radio and television. The concert really had been a great success, and it felt right to be sharing its aftermath with Paul, alone. 

The butterflies were still there, though, all through their talk, however much Art tried to ignore them. They flushed his cheeks and filled his head with blurry images of a remote time when singing was something the two of them did behind a closed, painted door on the first floor of his parents' house, and girls were a yet unexplored, mystified concept forever clouding their heads and judgements. In his mind's eye, the vague silhouettes of a pair of cross-legged figures on a queen-sized bed between blue walls gradually materialized, like phantoms out of a long-repressed dream. The shapes were talking - Art could almost hear them now, their voices bright and breezy and somehow more alive, real, than his own across the rim of his mug. Close to the queen-sized, a small window of four glass squares in a white frame was half-open, and the heavy green leaves of a tall birch blocked the view of a warm, mellow summer afternoon. There were cars and children's voices in the distance, and not a single gust of wind to disturb the familiar fragrance of dandelions and chimney smoke in the heavy suburban air. 

A few days later, in that blue room, Art kissed Paul for the first time because Paul had asked him to. 

******

"I can't ask her - I just can't!"

"Why not?"

"Because!"

"Because what? Are you scared?"

"No!"

"Scared that she'll say no?"

"Do you think she'll say no?"

Art threw both hands in the air resignedly and stared at Paul in a way that was sure to tell him just how ridiculous he was being right now. 

They were in Art's room. They often were these days - it was a lot bigger than Paul's, and they had more privacy there, it being on the first floor and all. The school year was almost out, and preparations for the annual midsummer dance had begun earlier this week. In just ten days, the entire school would be alight with rows of blue and green bulbs on dangling wires, and inside, the gym would be filled with live music and dancing couples beneath bright balloons and paper flags. The midsummer dance was a big event at Forest Hills High School, but this time around, Art, Paul and everyone else from their year were all looking forward to its coming with a different kind of nervous excitement than before. Things had changed somehow. Last year, Art and Paul had gone together on their bikes and spend the entire evening consuming heaps of candy and gallons of soda pops from the food stall and running around the ball room chasing Kenny Jackson because he had stolen their pennies, finally catching up with him and pouring melted ice cubes down his shirt. 

This year, Art had asked Jane Collins, the prettiest girl in his class, if she wanted go with him, and she had said yes. And Art's mom had promised to take Art to the city to buy him a brand new suit, because he had outgrown his old one, and the color was all wrong, anyway. Then he was going to borrow one of his dad's bowties and spend his week's earnings on that Gloss Wonder Hair Cream from the salon down the street. He'd even practiced dancing a little bit, down by the record player in the living room one afternoon when no one was home. To sum up, everything was neatly planned this time around, because Art had decided that this year's annual midsummer dance was going to be the best evening of his life. 

And then of course Paul started being Paul, acting up in that over-dramatic way of his. He wanted to ask Mary-Sue, Jane's friend, if she would go with him - or, really, Art had suggested he should ask her, because Art didn't feel right about going with Jane if Paul couldn't go, and Mary-Sue didn't have a date yet. And she was a very sweet girl, too. But Paul, the stubborn fool, was quite determined not to ask her or anyone else for that matter, and he was making an enormous fuss about it. 

"Look, Paul, she doesn't have a date, okay. She'll say yes!"

Paul now looked absolutely horrified as he sat there on the white covers, across from Art, who was in his usual spot at the foot of the bed. For a brief moment, following Paul's exasperated gasp, everything was quiet. 

"So, what, you think she'll only say yes out of necessity? Out of desperation? You just said she liked me, Artie!"

"I didn't say she liked you, air-head, I said that Jane said that Mary-Sue said that you were definitely better looking than John Wilkins."

"I'm so screwed." Paul closed his eyes and leaned back against the headboard, his arms thrown loosely across the pillows on either side of him. 

"Stop being such a baby. Does it really matter why she says yes? Don't you just want to go to the dance?" Paul's eyes remained closed, but Art could still see how he at last appeared to be coming, however reluctantly, around. 

"Fine." He didn't sound it, though, but it would have to do. 

"Good! Now, just go find her tomorrow at school, look her straight in the eyes - they really like that, makes it seem like you're really confident and determined and a lot of other stuff that you're definitely not - and tell her that you would be very pleased if she would go with you to the dance, and if she says yes, smile and tell her that you look forward to it, and that you can-"

"Wait! Stop. So, I go up to her-"

"Uh, Paul! Come on, man! You're 15! Why are you so bad at talking to girls? They don't bite, you know."

"No, but they look at you, and they talk about you behind your back, and then they say one thing when they really mean another - you know, I'd actually much rather be bitten." 

"Fine, whatever, I don't care - just as long as you ask her, feel free to be a freak all you want. I for one happen to like girls."

"Yeah, that's so easy for you to say. Every girl at school has a crush on you."

"Not every girl", Art said with a smirk. 

Paul threw a pillow at his face then, and another. Art laughed and tossed one of them back, but Paul expected as much and caught it. 

"Hey, just talk to Mary-Sue, alright. She'll like you for sure if you'd just talk to her."

"You really think so?" There was a tiny bit of hope in Paul's voice, and Art couldn't help but smile. 

"I really do." 

Art was right. Mary-Sue did say yes to Paul when, a couple of days later, he finally managed to muster up the necessary courage to ask her. And she seemed really happy about going with him, too, Paul said that same afternoon on Art's bed when he told his friend of his achievement, glowing with pride and relief. Both of them were supposed to be studying for their tests the following day, but the matter of the dance, now only a week away, was a pressing one which needed attending to before they could even begin to care about the birth years and war achievements of long-dead presidents. 

Art pushed his books aside and congratulated Paul warmly. His happiness was now complete - he was free to both look forward to the dance and enjoy himself once there now that he knew he didn't have to feel bad about Paul being unable to go or left behind. Art suggested they'd all go together. The four of them could meet up at the oak tree and walk the last few blocks to the school to avoid any possible awkwardness between themselves and the girls, and Paul more than liked the idea. 

"That'd be real neat, all of us going! Because, honestly, Artie, I know I've asked her and all, but now that I have, I have absolutely no idea what to say to her."

"Well, you really don't get to talk that much anyway once you're at the dance", Art answered. "The music's so loud, and instead of talking you can just dance. It's much easier."

Paul looked up from his books, his face open and attentive. "How is that easier? I've never danced with a girl before."

"Neither have I", confirmed Art, "but surely it can't be too difficult. You just move your feet around a little bit, follow the beat. That I know you can do."

"Yeah", agreed Paul absentmindedly, before he went on. "To tell you the truth, it's not the dancing that worries me the most."

Art faked a sigh and shook his head. "Go on."

"It's the, um..."

"The? The what? Paul?"

"The kissing, okay. You know I've never, you know..."

Art had to hide his face and stifle a laugh so as not to make his friend feel even worse than he obviously already did.

"Yeah, I can see you're laughing, jerk. I'm inexperienced, I'm not blind."

"Sorry! No, really." And he really was sorry. "It's just- well, never mind! The point is that the dance is next Friday, and you're taking a pretty girl, so you're going to have kiss her, it's the perfect opportunity, you can't miss out on it - and you have to kiss her so well she's going to feel like she's floating on air. But I think you can do it. In fact, I know you can. Trust me."

"I hope so. I'd really like to."

Art smiled and nodded, and considered returning to George Washington when Paul continued: 

"How do you do it?"

Art's thoughts had already started to move away from the subject, when he was pulled head-first back into a conversation he did not expect he was going to have today when he got out of bed this morning.

"You mean how do you kiss a girl?"

"Yes", Paul replied, with more determination. "I suppose it's nothing like in the movies. I'd probably get arrested."

"Ha! No, please don't do it like that. But, you know, it's kind of still the same thing, basically. Two pairs of lips, contact, bam! Just, you know, more gentle."

"How do you know so much about this stuff? Hey, don't answer. I don't want to know. And besides I already know. So, gently-"

"Yes, just be very gentle. Take the lead, but don't push her."

Paul was silent for a little while before he said: "And what about the technique?"

"What technique?"

"Well", Paul continued, "the other day, some of the guys from my class were talking about, you know, kissing girls, and they all seemed to be referring to some kind of technique, and of course I had to pretend I knew exactly what they meant, when really, well..."

Art was stifling again, and Paul held up a threatening pillow. 

"Surely there can't be just one right way of kissing a girl, Artie?"

"No, there isn't. But there is one way that seems to be working really well for everybody, so one might as well be on the safe side, especially when it's the first time and all."

"Okay, so tell me. What do I have to do."

Art paused, opened his mouth and closed it again. "Well, it's- you can't- it's really hard to- I mean, how do you explain a kiss?"

"I don't know", Paul cried, "you're the expert."

"Yeah, when it comes to doing, not explaining."

"Okay" - Paul was eager now, Art could tell. His books were all on the floor in one long sweep, and he was popping himself up on his knees. "Do it."

"Do what?"

"Show me."

"You want me to show you how to kiss a girl", Art said rather than asked. 

"Yes. Here." He pointed to his own lips. "You said I have girly lips anyway." 

"As in- oh, gosh, you really are a freak, Paul."

"Yes, and this freak desperately needs the help of his super popular friend, so please, Artie. You pointed out yourself that the dance is next Friday, and I have to have time to practice, too!"

Art could not believe he was agreeing to this, but Paul was so helplessly bad at everything relating even remotely to normal teenage stuff, and if his evening with Mary-Sue didn't go well, it would not only have the potential of ruining Art's night with Jane because of Paul's relentless egocentrism, but Art would also have to listen to Paul moan and complain for days, possibly weeks, after the fact, and Art would never get him to ask another girl out. So, Art really didn't have much of a choice. 

"Fine." Art let Washington and the rest of the Founding Fathers drop to the carpet and wriggled closer until he was sitting right in the middle of the bed. Paul did the same, and soon they were face to face, quite close, and the world around them existed somewhere else. 

"So", Art began, "you remember that thing I told you that was so important when asking a girl out?"

Paul thought for a few seconds. "Complement her dress."

"What? No, Paul, that's- well, yes, you should complement her dress-"

"Do I compliment it before or after the kiss?"

"Stop with the complementing," Art laughed. "You complement her dress when you pick her up, but you don't kiss her until the end of the evening, or at least two-thirds into it."

"Right." Paul had his serious-face on now. He really, truly wanted to learn. Art though it was quite endearing. 

"The other important thing I told you about is eye contact, remember? Before you kiss her, always look deep into her eyes, smile a little, and when she smiles back, and maybe looks down, that's when you lean in."

"And my arms?"

"Arms? Yes. Like this." Art placed one hand at the small of Paul's back, with just the right amount of pressure, and the other gently on his left cheek, the thumb just below the outer corner of Paul's dark, bright eye. 

Art felt that it was definitely Paul's turn to say something, and Paul obviously thought the same of Art, because neither of them said anything for a while, and Art was suddenly oddly conscious of where his hands were. 

Paul cleared his throat, but stayed in place, all his attention still focused on what Art was saying and doing. 

"And then?" Art could feel Paul's tea and bubblegum breath on his face.

"Then you just do it. Don't move in too fast, but don't be too slow, either." He swallowed. "And then you make contact, very lightly at first, as if her lips were made of- of fine glass."

Paul made a short chuckling sound through his nose. "Poetic."

"I know." Art smiled, and once smiling, he found he couldn't really stop, so he just sort of kept on smiling through the rest of the lesson. 

"Then you'll want to pull back with a little more speed than when you moved in, and if she doesn't budge, that's when it's time to make contact again, for real this time, with more... Pressure."

"And then?"

"Then you just... Find a rhythm. Turn you head slightly to either side and start moving your bottom lip in a kind of... Sucking movement? At that point, you should probably move this hand to either her shoulder or, if she really likes it, the back of her head. Again, gently."

"How do I know if she likes it?"

Art began to notice a strange tingling feeling in his stomach unlike anything he'd ever felt before. It was as if he was scared to death and on cloud nine at the same time. How was that even possible? The feeling soon spread to his hands and cheeks, inducing in the former a slight tremble, and an overwhelming surge of heat in the latter. He almost pulled away then; he would have, had his stupid body only complied with the will of his only slightly less stupid mind. 

"You just know." 

Silence again. Then:

"Art?" It didn't sound like Paul's voice at all. It must have belonged to someone else. It was softer, rasp, stripped of meaning, and barely above a whisper. Paul never sounded like that. 

"Yes?"

"Kiss me", the voice said. 

Silence. Outside, children were playing in the little garden plots behind the houses. Cars were passing down the street on their way back from the city. The factory chimneys smoked on. The clouds rolled by. The world kept turning. 

"Just kiss me."

And he did. Art kissed Paul - kissed his best friend - and it felt so good. It was nothing like kissing Erica or Amanda. It wasn't even anything like kissing Louise. It was easy, urgent, real. Art lifted himself slightly off the bed, onto his knees, and wrapped his arms around Paul's shoulders, pulling his hands upwards and his fingers through the soft, brown hair, so smooth and sweet-smelling from cheap lemon hair cream. He pushed their chests together and let sounds he didn't know he could make escape from deep within his throat. He could feel Paul gripping his shirt tight just below his arms, and the tingling feeling in his stomach spread to every part of his body, making him numb and hyper-sensitive all at once. He was suddenly breathless and light-headed, yet he just didn't seem to be able to stop, and very soon every little part of him just wanted to push Paul down on the covers and- do something. But he never got to, because there was a sudden, hard knock on the door and a woman's voice outside asking him something Art couldn't make sense of through the pounding in his ears. 

"Art, darling, I'm home. Are you studying", his mom asked, knocking a second time. 

Paul had thrown himself off the bed and onto the pile of forgotten books, his hair looking very much like the sad victim of a terrible hurricane, while Art, visibly panting, ended up by the window with one of the pillows held in a tight grip in front of him and his shirt all crumpled and possibly escaping from his pants. 

His mom stuck her head into the room. "Sorry, didn't want to interrupt. Hi, Paul", she added, smiling. "Are you working on your tests?"

Apparently, Art could neither catch his breath nor find his voice, and after an all too long period of silence in which he was sure his mom would start taking notice of their appearances and the state of the room, Paul chirped "yes, Mrs. Garfunkel" from the floor. Art mentally thanked Jesus, Mary, Moses and all the rest for Paul's excellent skills in spontaneous lying and deceit. 

"Good. Dinner's in an hour - I suppose you'll be joining us, Paul?"

"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Garfunkel."

She smiled again. "Thought so. Well, then, don't let me disturb you."

She closed the door, and her footsteps faded down the hallway and the stairs. 

So much for privacy. 

A minute passed. Art, more physically composed now, didn't dare to look at his friend. In fact, he didn't dare to look anywhere but at the floor in front of his feet. The warm air creeping through the window brushed his arms and neck, and his heart began at last to slow down. A couple of birds were twittering away in the branches of the birch. A train roared in the distance. The room was quiet and hot and stagnant. Everything around him seemed just like on any other lazy afternoon - within, however, Art felt nothing like his usual self. He tried to swallow the massive lump in his throat and fight his sudden inability to move. Still holding on to the pillow as if he depended on it for getting out of this situation alive, an army of thoughts marched through Art's head, making him dizzy with confusion. For all he knew, he would fall over any minute now. God, he wished he'd never made Paul talk to Mary-Sue! He wished he'd never asked Jane to that stupid dance. Heck, he wished he'd never even met Paul! Because there was no going back now, was there? How could they ever be friends again after this? And what if Paul told anyone?

Across the room, something unexpected suddenly happened. A chuckle, soft at first, but growing wilder every second, made itself heard. Soon, the chuckle turned into a real laugh, each burst like a giant hiccup followed by sniffling puffs of air. It sounded ridiculous, and it grew louder still, until the body producing it was lying on the floor next to the bed, kicking its feet in the air like a child or a madman. Or a Paul. 

The lump in Art's throat was now twice the size it had been before; it was almost choking him. His eyes felt glassy. His cheeks burned as if he had a fever, which he would in fact much rather have than whatever it was he was struggling with right now. 

Paul's old voice returned, and this was somehow both a comfort and a disappointment: "Jeez, that was close, man!" Then after a pause: "Don't think I've ever moved so fast before." 

Art tried to produce an equally cheerful answer, but the sound that came out of him was more like a sob than anything else. How very cool and collected of him. 

"You okay there?" Paul sat up quickly, eyeing Art from the floor on other side of the bed, with only his head and shoulders visible. 

"What? Yeah, fine. Man, that- that was... Uh, close." His legs were beginning to fall asleep, but they were still heavy as bricks and as immovable as ever. 

"We would have given her a heart attack probably", Paul continued. 

"Yeah, probably." Art couldn't remember ever sweating as much as he did right now. 

"And I guess she wouldn't have invited me to dinner."

Okay, so Art was dying, that was what was wrong with him. 

"You sure you're okay?" Paul got up and sat back down on the bed, facing Art, but still on the opposite side. 

Art nodded, a lot less breezily than he intended. Then Paul told him to quit standing there like a scarecrow, he was freaking him out, and come join him. They did have those tests to study for, after all. 

When Paul started gathering the scattered books in his arms and putting them back on the bed, something loosened up ever so slightly inside of Art, and he slowly let go of the pillow. The few steps to the bed became a mile, however, and once he was back on it, sitting only a few feet away from Paul, the regret was instantaneous. 

How could Paul seriously be talking about the civil war right now? Did he hit his head when he jumped onto the floor? Was he really that unmoved? Was Art overreacting? Or was he just that bad of a kisser? 

"Hey." Art had tuned out, but the tone in Paul's voice brought him back. Any trace of laughter was gone from it, and the hint of something else, something yet inexplicable, had taken its place. "You're not a very good teacher, by the way. What do you imagine Mary-Sue would do if I did that to her?" Another giggle, and then: "The star-crossed lovers in the movies have nothing on you, you know." 

These words had Art smiling his first genuine smile since before his mother walked in on them. Paul must have seen this and perhaps interpreted it as an invitation of sorts, because he let go of his pencil then and wrapped his right arm around Art's waist. The left hand he placed on Art's cheek, stroking his thumb lightly against the sun-kissed skin.

"I'm a good student, though. Aren't I?" 

He was, Art mentally confirmed, as moments later, they were kissing again, slowly and gently this time, but picking up pace fast. Paul's hands on Art's skin were soft and warm, and his lips tasted like coming home after a bad day. If this really was Paul's first time kissing, he was even more of a natural at kissing than he was a playing the guitar. Art wanted to tell him so, but he also didn't want to break away from what they were doing, whatever it was, because his body very much approved of the situation. Paul had moved closer, and Art carefully grabbed his thighs and started gliding his hands up the worn denim until he reached the belt buckle he was instinctively looking for. Paul pulled back then, his lungs completely empty, and looked down at Art's advanced activities. He put the hand that had been roaming around on Art's chest over the fumbling fingers at his trouser button, and Art immediately stopped. 

"I- I've never-"

"I know", Art said. "Neither have I."

"But you... You want to?"

Art had never answered anything faster. "Yes! Yes. I mean, do you?"

Paul took a moment to gather his thoughts, as always. Art observed him closely, as he often did - the tiny, pensive frown between his eyes, the subtle biting of his lower lip. His round cheeks and silky lashes. He was the most beautiful boy in the whole world, and he had no idea. 

"Yes." And then he smiled. And Art smiled back at him. And the butterflies - for they were indeed butterflies - in his stomach basked their colorful wings in proud syncopated harmony. It was the two of them against the rest of the world, forever and ever! 

They made love for the first time just before five o'clock on a warm summer afternoon, in that blue room on the first floor of an ordinary suburban townhouse in Queens. The sun was low and white across the rooftops towards the city, and the door had no lock, so they had to use a chair to keep the world away. 

Outside, it was a day like any other, but it was the first day of Art's life. It wasn't until later that he came to realize how this was not actually a good thing. 

******

"What are you smiling about?"

Art was well aware that he was smiling. "Nothing." Then in answer to Paul's continual stare: "Believe me."

"Come on, Artie, what? I know that smile. Tell me." Paul shifted on the couch so that not just his face was turned towards Art. His night-black eyes shone with the silvery shimmer of a million city lights, and it really wasn't fair. 

Art chuckled and said that Paul wouldn't enjoy hearing it anyway. He asked him, half laughing, half serious, to let it go, assured him again that it really was nothing, but Paul must have seen something in Art's face before - something Art could never hide from him, something only he could understand. But why wasn't he ignoring that something? He should have been dismissive - he was always dismissive. Why wasn't he now? And when did he get this close, anyway? There were no more than a few inches of space between their legs on the large couch. Art reached for his mug to gulp down the rest of its lukewarm contents. 

"Tell me. It was about us, wasn't it?"

Art shook his head, not dismissively, but more like in kindhearted disbelief, and looked away, hopefully hiding the growing smile on his face in the process. "Fine. Yes. Yes, it was. About us. How'd you know, anyway?"

Paul just sat there, cruelly close, grinning that evilest grin of his. 

"Do you remember that time my mom walked in on us", Art asked hesitantly in answer to Paul's still pleading stare. 

A genuine laugh, loud and- oh, Paul's teeth were so perfect. His face was-

"How could I ever forget! Oh, my god, and you were absolutely hopeless! I totally saved our asses, you know."

"I know", Art said, "those were quite some lying skills you developed there all of a sudden." 

"Well, you certainly had some unrefined skills yourself that day, if memory serves me."

Their eyes met then, and there was no mistaking now. If he wasn't careful, Art would get himself into the same kind of trouble he had found himself in one too many times, and it was the last thing he needed right now. He looked back down, searching for a way to change the subject which had already gone too far for comfort, but Paul was there before he could produce a single coherent thought.

"I still think about that day sometimes, you know. Like tonight, I thought about it tonight. Isn't that strange? When you left after the concert - when I saw you turn around and walk away from the party - I suddenly remembered how I watched you from under the street lamp that night when I left after dinner. You were standing in the doorway, with, you know, the warm glow of the lights from inside all around you, like a halo or something, and... Well, it's kind of silly, but... I had this weird feeling I was never going to see you again. That there was no, you know, us anymore. It really scared me. I almost turned around and went back to you."

Over Paul's shoulder, a white dresser opposite the window was just visible. The lamp on top of it shone a faint, yellow light on a small cluster of pictures of various shapes and sizes - the type of decorative scenario you'd find in any standard American home. From within the black and silver frames, men, women and children looked across the floor with ghostly smiles on their silenced faces - again, the usual. In an older, wooden frame, two colorless boys emerged from the shadow of a larger picture, their eyes alight with the innocence of juvenile hopes and dreams. It seemed too late to warn them now. 

"Why are you saying this", Art asked quietly. 

"Seemed relevant. You brought it up."

"Yeah, because you made me! I never wanted to talk about this." 

"Why are you so mad, all the time, Art - you're always mad! Mad at the world, mad at me! Or maybe those two are the same thing?"

"Shut up, Paul."

"Then tell me what's wrong!"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because!"

"Oh, "because"! Okay, now, that's very mature of you. Why don't you just-"

Art widened the gap between them and buried his face in his hands, his eyes tightly shut. If he was trembling, it was only because the events of the day were having their much foreseen effect on him at last. 

"Stop! Stop, alright? Stop it!"

He must have sounded angrier, possibly more desperate, than he wanted to. Paul immediately stopped talking, and the room was once again cloaked in silence. From the kitchen up ahead, Art began to notice the deep, electric humming of the refrigerator, and if Paul hadn't been moving closer again, he might have remembered how hungry he was. 

"Artie? Hey."

Paul put his hand on Art's knee and held it there. Such a simple gesture. A familiar warmth passed merciless through Art’s limbs, reaching all the way to the pounding in his head. Shades of pale blue swirled before his eyes behind closed lids; four and a half square feet of being completely honest and alive, just out of reach. 

Empty and aching and all that. 

"I'm still in love with you." Mature enough for you? 

Art didn't know what he expected - most likely he had no real expectations - but least of all did he predict or wish for the answer he got.

"I know", Paul said. 

"Ha, yeah. Of course you do." Art said it with all the hurt and spite that was due. But Paul always knew what to say now. 

"It's really that bad, huh? Loving me?"

"Kind of is, yeah", Art answered. 

"Well, then stop. I'm not very nice, you know. I don't treat you nearly as well as you deserve. You... You are so sweet, Artie, and kind, and smart. Everybody thinks so. You don't need anyone else - least of all me. It doesn't make any sense anymore, you know, so just... Just stop. Let it go."

A sudden urge arose to revenge himself on the two naively smiling boys in the dimly lit frame across the room; revenge himself because they were the ones who'd gotten him into this whole mess in the first place. Even if he could, however, at a second thought he knew that he shouldn't; they had no idea what they were doing, poor things. What a familiar feeling that was. 

"I see", Art replied, calmly. "Well, if that's what you wanted me to do all along, then this whole idea of the show and the tour and-"

"It's not what I want", Paul interrupted. "It's the last thing that I want. But... You don't seem happy."

Bingo, Paul! Great improvement in the empathy department! 

"I wish you could be happy. I think you used to be." 

Art looked up, slowly, his eyes reaching as far as Paul's chest before they abandoned the mission. 

"Were you ever", he asked. 

Paul moved his thumb in a tiny, solitary circular motion on Art's knee. "I was tonight", he answered. "On stage... When you knocked on my door, and I knew it was you. I was happy then."

"That's not what I mean."

"I know", Paul said. 

Another prolonged interval of refrigerator humming took place before Paul's quiet voice resumed, with something akin to bitter-sweetness in its wake, Art pondered.

"Do you remember how you sneaked into my room a few nights after that afternoon in your house? Through the window?"

Art allowed himself to huff a small laugh in spite of himself. He was very far from getting up and going home, even if every muscle in his body was begging him to, because Paul still had his hand on Art's knee. Whether it felt safe or possessive he really didn't know. 

"Vividly", he said, his laugh gradually fading as the details of the memory and everything that came after slowly came back to him through the haze of so many years. "It was the night before-"

******

The dance. The dance was tomorrow. Tomorrow! Art could barely contain himself, he was so excited! He was on his bed, and supposed to be writing a math paper which was usually a very easy thing to be doing as far as homework went. But tonight, the numbers just didn't seem to add up, and his thoughts were constantly leaving the task before him to roam in a place of swirling floral dresses and bubbling pink punch. Outside, the street was silent and snug beneath the pale light of a half moon and an inky sky dotted with white stars. Every twenty feet, the pavement was lit up by the weak, greenish beams of the old lampposts along the road, their evening peace routinely disturbed by the buzzing of swarms of fireflies enjoying their final hours. Across the borough, beyond the distant evening horizon, the city was bustling with the kind of life the early risers would never know. 

Art had dropped his pencil, again, and was staring - dreamily, some might say - out of the window, his light head resting on his now free hand. He smiled effortlessly at the night. 

It had been such a wonderful week. Getting everything ready for the dance had indeed turned out to be tremendous fun. His new suit was a deep, dark blue that "brought out his eye", as the lady in the fancy (Art thought) store had told him. His mother had gotten him new shoes, too, to match the suit - they were black and shiny and looked a lot more expensive than they were. He'd already practiced styling his hair, too, the way Bill LeBronto did, and his dad, after being thoroughly convinced that everyone else from Art's class were allowed to, and quite determined to permit his son the same kind of freedom as the rest of the dads, had given Art permission to be out until 12:30 on the night of the dance. Art had almost hugged him when he was told, because this meant that they would all be able to go to Dutty's Dairy for milkshakes afterwards. 

Oh, why must tomorrow be so far away! 

Art threw himself down on his back, tired but unable to rest, when a small piece of torn paper fell out of the breast pocket of his old checkered shirt. How long had that been in there? He hadn't seen or talked to anyone since he got home from school, and-

As he unfolded it, Paul's round, curly letters revealed themselves in uneven rows across the tiny scrap. 

"Come over tonight when they're all asleep. I'll leave my window open." 

Art read the little note again, and then again. He might even have read it a fourth time, who could tell - it wasn't every day that secret notes containing secret messages fell out of your breast pocket at this hour. It certainly didn't take him long to get his coat from the back of the door and his old tennis shoes that were too tight these days from under the bed, and slide down the heavy trunk of the birch, scraping the skin of his stomach in the process. He landed silently on his feet in the chill, dewy grass. It tickled his ankles as he tip-toed to the back fence over which he jumped as quietly as he possibly could. Soon he was well on his way along the dark path between the back gardens and the tall hedgerow. 

Paul's window was on the ground floor, facing eastward, whereas the rest of the family had windows overlooking the parking space and the rose bushes in front of the red brick house. Art climbed the creaking, two-seat bench just below the window, pushed open the pane and was inside the little room, head-first, before the neighbors could remove an earplug. 

"There you are", Paul whispered half surprised. "Thought you'd never show up!"

Paul was on the floor, scattered papers in front of him, but as soon as he saw Art he was back on his feet, smiling and pulling the chair out from his desk with a quiet "sit". 

The room was narrow and rectangular, with a deep red wallpaper and hardwood floors on which lay an extensive gray carpet. At one end there was the wooden desk, neatly organized; on top of it were two even towers of books, one with readings for school and one with Paul's own literature which included a broad variety of musical history, poetry and American fiction. The vintage Moby Dick which Art had given him a while back was on top of this second pile - that meant he must have finished it, Art noted. At the other end of the room was the music station, with Paul's records on suspended shelves, the guitar below them on the floor and a large, circular-patterned rug of similar wine and burgundy shades covering most of the end wall. In the middle of the room, across from the door and below the window, there was Paul's old bed from when he was a little boy. There was a newspaper cut-out of Elvis Presley stuck to the wall above the night stand. 

"So, did you get my note", Paul asked, still smiling. His eyes were coal-black and pearly in the deep orange light of a corner lamp, and he was already wearing his pajamas - the blue one with the white buttons. It made him look younger somehow. 

"It fell out of my pocket exactly nine minutes ago", Art said, seating himself on the appointed chair, a little out of breath from his hurried nightly ramble. "You could have just asked me in person, you know."

"It was more fun this way."

Art shook his head. "You are so weird. When did you even put it in? I never saw you do it."

"Weird and in possession of magical powers. I'd be off in a jiffy if I were you", Paul smirked. 

Art just laughed at him, trying very hard to keep his voice down so as not to wake the entire household. If somebody did wake up and found them sneaking around this late, they'd probably be in so much trouble it might even compromise their chances of going to the dance. Art hadn't thought about this until now, and he was going to say something when Paul suddenly moved to the bed, placing himself close to the headboard, cross-legged as always - and suddenly it seemed physically impossible to even talk about the probability of leaving. 

So Art stayed, and they talked for a little while, mainly about their curfew tomorrow. Paul had to be home by 12:00, and they were wondering whether there would be time for milkshakes after all. When a good five minutes had passed, however, Paul fell silent. He just sat there, looking at Art with those devilishly handsome eyes of his. He held Art's gaze a short while, before he softly, perhaps even a little timidly, padded the space on the bed in front of him. Art was there before his brain had even begun to process the action. 

Paul placed a hand on either side of Art's face and gently pulled him closer. He wetted his lips just before they touched Art's, and the red room started spinning steadily, delightfully, around them. 

It had been a little awkward that evening when they kissed for the first time. There had been hands not knowing what to do with themselves, noses bumping into other noses, and one time they even lost their balance and tumbled out of bed still wrapped in each other's arms. But it wasn't like that now. They'd been kissing every day since that afternoon in Art's room, and they pretty nearly had their very own rhythm down: Paul liked touching Art's hair, face and neck, and Art preferred pressing their bodies together by wrapping his arms all around Paul's waist. He was sturdily build, Paul, and Art never tired of feeling the soft curves of his hips and back as their lips explored new, and yet familiar, territories. Art never thought about the infamous technique anymore, because he and Paul didn't need that; they just needed each other, and everything else just happened naturally, unpredictably. Art was kind of proud of that. Proud of the two of them together. 

Tonight, however, Paul was moving faster than he usually did, and Art was not completely surprised when he felt a sudden tugging at his shirt and heard the sound of a zipper being undone in a hurry. Paul was already panting audibly and getting hotter every second, so Art was not afraid to put his hand down the back of Paul's pajama bottoms and squeeze what he found there - an act which earned him a precious "God, Artie" through clenched teeth. They hadn't been together like this since that first time, but Art somehow instinctively knew what Paul liked, and he wanted to give him just that. 

It suddenly seemed a lifetime ago that they'd built a fort out of empty boxes, pillows and blankets in that very room. Then they'd shown each other their new motorcar trading cards, read DC comics out loud and drawn monsters on toilet paper with Eddie's crayons, spending all afternoon secluded and safe within their cardboard walls. 

Now, they were lying down on the narrow bed together, Art on top, with both their pants around their angles. On a second thought they probably should have taken them off - their socks, too - but there simply wasn't time; they didn't know how to stop. They also faced the similarly difficult task of moving properly against each other without the bed making those much revealing noises that were very likely to escape the tiny room and creep down the hallway and into other rooms of the house. So they lifted their hips slightly off the mattress in unspoken unison and prayed to all the gods that nobody would hear them. 

"Oh, God, Artie, that feels so good, so good, right there", Paul whispered. He never stopped talking when they were just hanging out, and he never stopped talking when they were doing this. Art loved it - he moved faster, pressed harder, just to get more words out from between Paul's gorgeous lips. Paul’s arms were wrapped tightly around his shoulders, as Art touched them both, rubbing them desperately against each other, until his sanity was completely gone. 

When it was all over, and they lay quietly in the half-darkness, clinging to each other and catching their breaths, Art, without thinking, said something out loud in the sudden quietness of the room, his voice weak with exhaustion: 

"I love you, Paul." 

It was such an obvious thing to say. They were best friends, they spent all their time together, shared all their secrets with each other, so of course Art loved Paul. And Paul must have loved Art, too - he must have. He wrote songs which only Art was allowed to hear. He always came to Art for advice about school or girls or the future. Why, he was the one who'd left the note in Art's shirt pocket! Yet with those few words, spoken while his heart was racing happily against his rib cage, Art still seemed to have crossed some invisible, fatal line and moved into a hazy, unknown territory from which there seemed no way back - somewhere where things like trading cards and pillow forts didn't exist, and never had. 

Art closed his eyes, his cheek still resting against the top of Paul's head. There came no reply. All was as quiet as before he had spoken. The first traces of doubt began to enter his mind. Perhaps he should have held his tongue. Perhaps this confession of his made Paul feel uncomfortable. It might have been too soon, or too much. Or maybe it was just wrong. They didn't say things like that to each other. They never needed to. Art could not for the life of him fathom why he'd had the sudden urge to say it tonight. 

The silence grew unbearable, drowning the red room in its deep and lonely echo - but then Paul suddenly jerked his head up from the pillow, his eyes and mouth wide open. He gave Art a terrible shock, pulling him immediately out of the turmoil of his inner worries. But there was no time to ask what was going on - it all happened so quickly. With one lightning-fast toss of the covers, Paul jumped out of bed, onto the floor and immediately disappeared from view. And then just like that everything went dark. It wasn't until he registered Paul, in a whispering voice almost on the verge of panic, telling him to "hurry up, man" that Art realized he'd had his shirt thrown over his head. When he pulled it back off, Paul was pulling his pants up with one hand and combing the other frantically through his tousled bed-head. The elastic waistband was too tight to go all the way up with the help of just one hand, so he started doing an odd twisting of the hip that more than anything else looked like something you might see at the local senior dance club. With underpants, of course. It certainly wasn't the prettiest sight to behold. 

"Geez, Art, get moving, somebody's coming!" 

Somebody was coming - Art could suddenly hear the sound of a sleep-heavy footfall somewhere in the dark house. Paul, it being his place and all, had of course noticed the treads on the carpeted stairs before Art ever had an inkling. 

Within fifteen seconds, Art found himself semi-dressed - both shirt and pants were very much undone - and in the tight space under the bed, lying shoulder to shoulder with an old baseball bat, at least three pairs of worn-out shoes and a canvas bag that smelled of graveyard. His breathing was so heavy he was sure they could hear it all up and down the street. Paul was still tumbling about above, undoubtedly tidying up the place, but Art couldn't follow his feet or see what he was doing because his face was turned the wrong way, and there wasn't enough room to move it. Suddenly the doorknob was pulled down, just as Art had what must have been his jacket thrown at him from the right side of the bed, and Paul jumped back down on the mattress so that Art had to suck in his stomach even further. How he went from being so very relaxed and cozy on top of the bed to being this uncomfortable, not to mentioned covered in dust and dead spiders, below it in less than thirty seconds was beyond him. It was fairly uncool. On some level it might have been a little exhilarating, too. 

"What are you doing up at this hour?" It was Paul's dad, and his voice sounded very tired and rough and not at all amused. Thankfully, Paul was ready with another brilliant cover-up lie: 

"Math. Mr. Henderson said we had to do the whole page for tomorrow, and that he'd come around and check, and I just can't figure this problem out."

"Well", Mr. Simon answered, obviously still annoyed, "you should have asked for help earlier. This is no time to do homework. Ask Art in the morning before the first class, and go to bed, Paul. Now."

"Yes, dad."

There was some indistinct grunting going on, and then the door closed. Art waited in silence for a sign that the coast was really clear. It came in the form of a familiar stifled chuckled from the topside of the bed. Art wriggled himself out from below and crawled back onto the mattress with his arms and upper body, his knees staying on the soft carpet. He found Paul with both of his hands clasped desperately across his mouth and his eyes wet with tears. Art, too, had to muster all his strength not to scream out with laugher. 

For an entire five minutes, neither of them could form any kind of sensible words, and when they'd finally caught their breaths, and the color was once again fading from their faces, Paul leaned over and took a gentle hold on both of Art's wrists. Art looked up, straight into Paul's smiling, dark eyes. He looked so stupidly happy - Art really couldn't help himself as he reached up from his weird position on the floor and kissed those pouty lips once more. They were wet and warm, and Art instantly felt the by now familiar fluttering in the pit of his stomach - and he happily welcomed the feeling. He had grown quite fond of those little butterflies, as they always seemed to come to life inside of him whenever Paul and him shared a particularly tender moment; a moment of infinite promises, of endless summers and eternal youth. 

"We should really start locking those damn doors", Paul mused in a whisper, still grinning a little, when they finally broke apart.

"Or go somewhere where the concept of meddling parents doesn't exist", Art suggested. "Anywhere where we can be alone." 

"That would be much preferred, yes", Paul agreed, half a smile still lingering at the corner of his mouth. "Do you know such a place?" 

With an unspoken no on his lips, Art leaned forward again and rested their foreheads together. He'd never done that before, either. 

"I should probably get going", he said quietly. 

Paul had closed his eyes, and the sound he made in reply was something of a cross between acquiescence and whining. He held on to Art's hands more tightly. 

"I'll see you in the morning, Paul." 

"Alright." 

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Artie." 

Neither of them moved. It was as if they somehow knew they wouldn't be this close again in a very long time - perhaps ever. They couldn't have known, of course, and yet Paul's grip on Art grew ever tighter, and Art nuzzled his nose lovingly against Paul's, his heart suddenly in his throat. 

Art did not know how long they sat like that, but when he later climbed the birch and crawled back through his window, the little clock on the wall above the chest of drawers informed him, in its own rhythmic ticking, that he'd only been gone a little over half an hour. How could it have been so little? How could one feel so much in such a short time? 

That night he fell asleep on top of the white covers, with the cooling night air shifting soundlessly through the open window. A million thoughts had kept him awake for hours before he finally disappeared into a dreamless slumber where no one, not even Paul, could follow. The early morning was gray and calm and crept into his blue room just as he awoke. He had the strange feeling that he'd only just blinked, that he'd never in fact been asleep, and yet the sun was slowly rising, honey-gold and bright, somewhere beyond the streets and the houses; the night had passed after all. Art knew that he should probably go back to sleep if he didn't want to be too tired later in the day, but he found it absolutely impossible to keep his eyes closed just then. His gaze sought the pale skies outside - how could one sleep when the world was so young and the annual midsummer dance only hours away! 

At breakfast, Art did not have the appetite his mom was used cater to. In fact, he could hardly get through a single slice of jelly toast without a whole lot of chewing, long pauses and large gulps of both water and coffee. His left foot wouldn't stop tapping the floor in this strange, restless rhythm that had his dad looking up from the paper more than once, his eyes silently smiling over the rim of his dark glasses. To avoid his dad's constant staring, Art kept looking at the door every other second, his mind leaving through it over and over again. For some reason he longed to fill his lungs with the summer air outside, but it was only just over seven o'clock, and Art never left the house before seven thirty. Besides eating every item of food he could get his hands on, he usually spent the morning going over the Culture and Travel section of the paper, finishing his homework or reading poetry, all the while listening to the radio on the counter next to the window. It was a local station, and it was mostly news and a lot of dreary talking, but they did play some funky tunes, too, from time to time. His parents weren't very keen to admit it, but they kind of enjoyed a little rock and roll, especially early in the day. "It sure does get you going in the morning", his dad would say, looking almost embarrassed as he put his lunch in his briefcase and took his hat from the peg next to the front door. Oftentimes, therefore, Art was so occupied at the breakfast table that he completely lost track of time and had to suddenly grab his things in a terrible hurry, tell his parents goodbye and see you later and rush through the front yard, jump the gate and run down the street to where Paul was waiting by the old oak, school bag in hand and always a million things to tell his oldest friend. 

Paul. He kept thinking about Paul. Everything these days, and especially this morning, reminded Art of him. Art had heard him hum the song currently playing on the radio only a few days ago; there was a tiny ad for a newly opened local music store at the bottom right corner of the newspaper that Paul and him were sure to check out soon; why, the cobalt milk carton across the table had Art thinking of the milk stains left on Paul's shirt from lunch at school yesterday! Even when Paul wasn't around, he was always there. Even when they weren't together, they were. Art sometimes wondered, during the occasional solitary musing as he gazed towards the city from his bedroom window, if Paul felt the same way about him. Did he dream about the same things that Art dreamed about? Did he wish upon the stars in the summer night sky, too? 

These thoughts didn't cross Art’s mind this morning, however. He wasn't in a pensive mood at all, he was in a good one. A really, really good one. Apparently so visibly good that after a while, his dad cleared his throat and ventured what must have seemed a relevant question:

"So, Artie. Looking forward to tonight?"

Art saw his mom smile impishly at his dad from her side of the table, but she kept her silence and her hands busy with the coffee pot. 

"Yes. Um, yes, very much."

His mom nodded reassuringly, and Art smiled back at her. He even laughed a little at himself - man, was he fifteen or five? It was just a dance! But then again maybe it wasn't; maybe it was-

"Are you going to pick her up, then", his dad continued. 

"Who?"

The paper was lowered. "The girl. Jane - isn't that who you're taking?"

"Oh, ha. Yes, of course! Well, no, actually, we were just going to meet up at the old oak, all four of us."

"The two of them are going with Paul and Mary-Sue", Art's mom added. 

"Yes. Yes, we are. Paul wanted to go together, so." A pleasant, tingling warmth spread deep within Art's chest at the mere mentioning of his name, and if he hadn't felt so giddily happy just then, he might have worried that this, too, showed. If it did, though, it really didn't matter after all - his parents would simply think he was excited about going with Jane. He had talked quite a lot about her when he'd first asked her to go with him. Now, Art was ashamed to admit to himself, he realized how little he had thought about her this past week. In fact, she'd hardly been on his mind at all. Come to think of it, he hadn't really talked to his friends, Fred and Billy, either. Why, he didn't even know who they were taking tonight or if they were going at all! The world and everyone in it seemed to have gradually faded into the background, become unfocused, and Paul, only Paul, was still clear to him. That shy, grinning smile and those dark, sleepy eyes, the brilliant things he said, the music they made together - all of this was everywhere, all around, all the time, and it was as if everything else existed only to be shone upon by the radiant glow of Paul's presence. Perhaps it should have been obvious, but Art somehow only seemed to recognize just now, toast in mouth and eyes on the door again, how extremely proud he was that Paul was his best friend, and how good that made him feel about himself. 

Paul was not waiting by the oak that morning. In hindsight, it was quite a bad omen; it was where the first of many of the day's disappointments took place. It had happened before, of course, Paul not waiting for him in their unusual spot. Sometimes Paul was sick, and his mom had forgotten to call about it until Art was already out the door. Sometimes he was late - this scenario was rare, but it had happened. Other times, if the day was particularly cold or rainy, his dad gave him a ride in his car, and then they would usually, but not always, pick Art up on the way, too. Today was neither cold nor rainy, however, and Paul sure hadn't been sick last night, so Art decided he must have overslept and was probably on his way right now, running down the lane between the houses and the hedgerow. Art leaned against the trunk and fidgeted with the handle of his school bag, his eyes never leaving the street from which he knew Paul was coming. It was such a beautiful day around him. There was a golden, shimmering glow in the air that made even the metal trash cans shine like silver along the sidewalk. The streets were bustling with the early morning life of people walking, driving or riding their bikes - it was Friday after all, and the week was soon out, promising rest and peace and quiet and fun. Everybody passing Art seemed to be moving with a breezy spring in their gait, as if they were embarking on some unknown adventure in a strange world instead of going to work or school. Above his head, in the lime-green crown of the old oak still so full of life, blackbirds and starlings were chirping away, calling their mates across the borough in familiar, harmonious melodies. What a shame that Art should completely miss all of this! 

After almost fifteen minutes of waiting in the shade of the twisting branches, Art must have looked fairly comical to by-passers, indecisively pacing back and forth, craning his neck and looking at his wrist watch every other second. Where the heck was Paul? Art debated whether to start off toward his house and perhaps run into him half way there, or run back home and call him - but that would involve his parents asking questions - or to just head to school and count on seeing him there. When it was suddenly five minutes to eight, Art didn't have much of a choice if he wanted to get to the first class on time, so he took one last, long look in the direction of Paul's place before he was on his way, half running and with his heart pounding oddly fast, to Forest Hill High on 110th. 

On closing his locker, after having continually looked about him since he entered the main building, Art suddenly froze. He had never before found himself pinned to the spot like this in the middle of the crowded hallway, as if he was nothing but a mere statue of himself. And what an unbecoming statue it was! His clothes were all jumbled from running, his right shoe was untied, and his hair was messier than usual, sweaty and sticking to his temples. And yes, he'd just dropped the books he was carrying to Advanced Math, all four of them, with a loud fluttering bang, onto the slippery, gray floor. Some girl he'd never seen before, in a yellow dress and with a huge smile on her fresh, round face, picked them up and kindly handed them to him. She kept on standing next to him afterwards as if she expected a thank you of sorts, which really was a fair enough request, but Art had completely forgotten how to form even the simplest of sentences. He couldn't even look at her for more than a split second, because his eyes were otherwise engaged. At the end of the row of lockers, across the room where Paul had his first class on Fridays, was Paul himself. He was wearing the same jeans he always wore - the dark blue ones that highlighted his figure - and a green checkered shirt with the sleeves loosely rolled past his elbows stuffed into them. Not a hair on head was out of place, and it shone almost glossily black under the fluorescent lights hanging from the low ceiling. Between him and the wall was Mary-Sue, in a white, flowery dress with a round collar and a string of buttons from top to bottom. She blushed prettily and smiled at something Paul was saying to her, her hands daintily folded across her waist. The two of them looked so young and smitten and picture-perfect together, like a couple straight out of ‘Teen (if Paul had been a little taller). When the bell went off and signaled the start of the school day, Art vaguely noticed that the yellow-dressed girl had gone, and so had his good spirits, just like that. Paul and Mary-Sue disappeared into their classroom together, Paul of course holding the door for her, and Art had to forcibly drag his feet the few steps down the adjoining hallway and through the first door in the right. It was a good thing the teacher didn't ask him any question about their homework, because he might as well have asked Art something in Chinese. 

After the first two classes, of which he could remember next to nothing of what had taken place, Art found himself uneasily drawn towards the bathrooms in the basement - he longed to, needed to, sit quietly in one of the empty stalls for a while and think things over. Everybody always used the bathrooms next to the cafeteria or by the entrance, so he felt sure not to be disturbed if he went downstairs. He gathered his books in a hurry just as the bell signaled the first break of the day and as good as ran towards his locker to dispose of them, but as he turned around to head toward the stairs further down, Paul was standing right behind him, his smile reaching all the way from one ear to the other. He looked even more perfect up close than he had from across the hallway - why, Art thought he’d never in fact looked better. Or more grown up for that matter. Why was that?

“I talked to her”, Paul said.

“Huh?” Great reply. Very intelligent. What a day Art was having. 

Paul lowered his voice a little bit. “Mary-Sue, doofus! She and her dad picked me up this morning - I guess he wanted to see who was taking his daughter to the dance - and drove me here, and I talked to her, in the car and before class. And it was so easy, too! I just did everything you said. Isn’t that great?”

Paul looked so genuinely excited about the whole thing that Art truly, honestly wanted to tell him congratulations and mean it - this was a big step for Paul, and they both knew it. Art tried, too. Tried to twist his mouth into a friendly, supportive smile, tried to form that tiny, little word that Paul so obviously wanted to hear, but it was like before in the hallway next to the yellow-dressed girl: his throat was like an Arizona dessert, and his brain was yelling and screaming a million things inside his head, all of which would most certainly make him sound half-crazy if he'd said them out loud. 

“Did you hear what I just said? Artie. You alright?” 

“Yeah, yeah”, he finally mustered, unconvincingly. It was to Paul, anyway, because he always knew, he could always tell. For the first time ever, Art so wished he couldn’t - wished that he could just keep his thoughts and feelings to himself for once.

“Okay, well, you don’t really look it. Anyway, you coming?”

“Where’s she now”, Art asked. It literally flew out of his mouth, and Paul, who had turned to leave, swirled back around quickly and eyed Art in a way that Art was sure he’d never done before. There was a pause, just a short one, but it somehow seemed to hold a lot of meaning.

“She’s with her friends. We’ve no more classes together today. But I’m walking her home after school. Look, are you coming or not? I want a soda.”

“I have to…”, Art began, and then went blank again. He had to what? Go? Pee? Get away at any cost? Go hang out anywhere in the world but wherever Paul was? What?

“Go on ahead, I’ll catch up with you.”

“Alright.” Paul started off down the hallway leading to the cafeteria, the smile gone from his mouth, but not his eyes. When he’d passed the first couple of doors, however, and Art himself was about to turn the other way, he looked back and breathed in air as if he was just about to say something, the little frown between his eyes clearly visible even from afar. But nothing came out, and he turned around again. Art did not stay to watch him leave. 

The bathroom in the basement was nothing short of gross. Because nobody appeared to be using it, it never got cleaned, and it was as if years of pee and dirt and sadness clung to the petrol-colored tiles on the walls and the floor, leaving a stark, sewer-like smell that reached your nose even before you entered the room. Here, in the stall furthest away from the entrance, behind a locked door and under an orange lamp that blinked every ten seconds, Art sat down on the wiggly toilet seat with his school bag between his knees and his eyes fixed on the writings on the back of the seaweed-green door. He absentmindedly glanced over the usual stuff you find on bathroom doors: "S+L", "Bill is dreamy", "Harry was here", and so on. But what caught Art's eye was the word at the very bottom of the door, in large, bold, black letters. 

"LIFE."

Underneath the word, each letter formed the first letter in another word, all four of which when read together became the simple sentence: 

"Love. Is. Forever. Elusive."

It might very well have been in that minute moment, in a dark and stinky bathroom stall on a Friday morning in late May, that Art fell in love with poetry. It might have been here that he first understood the ancient human need for poetic expression. Never had four words - a mere random, uneven scrawl on a bathroom wall - made so much sense to him; never had he felt more understood or heard or accepted by a faceless writer than he did just then. It seemed the words existed only so that he alone could read them, yet the universality of their weight at the same time made him feel just a little less helpless, just a little less alone in the universe. He read the words over again and again, each time understanding them better than before, but by the time he'd read them what must have been the twentieth time, he hardly knew if he was feeling better or worse than when he'd turned the lock and sat down. Because his first instinct, which he was miserable to recognize had been to cry his eyes out, was gone, but something else, too, seemed to have been lost to him - something he thought he'd held in the very palm of his hand, yet which he now realized he never in fact had held at all. He looked down at the sticky tiles and hugged the bag in his lap a little tighter. 

Art didn't see Paul the rest of the day for the simple reason that Art very much avoided him. At every chance he got, he returned to the dark, chilly stall in the basement to be alone and not disturbed - he even had his lunch down there. Whether it was the smell of the place or the odd feeling in his chest that affected his appetite, he didn't know, but all he had were a few bites of an apple and some milk, and that was it. As soon as the bell went off at two and school was out for the day, he left by the south door and went home through the park instead of taking the route he and Paul usually did - the one that lead them across the baseball field and pass the little candy store where they'd spend too much of their pocket money over the years. Art tried not to think about anything as he took in the peaceful scene of the sun bringing out all the nuances of the clusters of little park flowers along the lane; he tried to breathe in their friendly scent and focus all his attention on the sound of his best tennis shoes on the dry gravel, on the bird song above and on summer break just around the corner. Oh, how he tried to think about all these things! But there was an unfamiliar fog around his head and his heart that no amount of sunshine seemed able to lift. 

Once home, Art was deeply thankful that both his parents were still out. He went straight to his room, locked the door, drew the blinds and curled up under the covers of his queen size. It was a relief to close one's eyes at last and lie quietly in the shadows - Art had dreamed of doing nothing else ever since he saw Paul and Mary-Sue in the hallway. It was a wonder he got through all of his classes, but he wouldn't have known what to tell his mom had she found out about his skipping any of them. 

After a few minutes, Art realized that he wasn't really tired and that he didn't think he'd be able to sleep. Still he wouldn't open his eyes, because he knew what was occupying the chair across the room. He'd seen it when he walked in: his mother had pressed and ironed the blue suit and a classy, white shirt and put them both out, all ready for tonight - complete with a red bow tie on top and the new shiny shoes on the floor beneath. Art felt like screaming again when he thought about Jane and Paul and Mary-Sue, and how they were all still looking forward to tonight, and how in a little over three hours they would all be meeting at the old oak, and Art would have to be there, and how in the world would he ever be able to survive the torment of walking all the way to school, keeping up conversation as one was supposed to do, and then asking Jane to dance every dance of the night with him? If only he'd had someone he could have prayed to and who could have made today, and particularly tonight, go very far away! If only he'd had a friend who could make him feel better, or a mom who would understand. But he was all alone; for the first time in his life, there was no one he could turn to. Art decided never to leave his bed. 

He did leave it, however, about two hours later when his mom knocked on his door for the third time and asked him how he was getting on and if he needed any help. He told her no, for the third time, before he noticed the sudden darkness of the room, got up, walked to the window and looked outside. The sun was all gone from the streets below - a pale gray bank of clouds hung gloomily over the borough and threatened its people with chilly evening showers. Art didn’t much care. Had it looked like rain this morning, he might have thought it a shame that his new shoes would get ruined or that they’d have to get a lift or a cab instead of walking to the dance. Now, his blue eyes sought the still warm, heavy dampness of the air with a sense of calm comfort: if the weather could be sad, so could he. 

And Art was sad. He knew that know. He wasn’t shocked or confused or even angry. He was sad, and not because of anything that had been done to him, but because he’d been so happy when he woke up this morning - the world had seemed so beautiful and ready to be explored - and now that feeling was gone and something else, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, had taken its place, and he felt sorry, not for himself, but for the boy who’d woken up in this very room just before dawn, and who would never get to go to the school dance after all. Art was going instead of him, and it seemed such a waste. 

He dressed quietly, slowly, and didn’t bother with the hair cream. He threw it in the trash can under his desk before he went downstairs. His mom gasped and smiled and folded her hands in front of her chest as he entered the kitchen, but the mirth on her well-meaning face disappeared as soon as her eyes met those of her son. 

“What’s wrong, darling?”

“Nothing”, Art lied. “Nothing. My shoes are a little tight.” Actually they were a little too big.

“Oh, but they’re leather, dearest - they’ll expand once you start walking in them. You all ready to go?” She was smiling again, but Art knew he hadn’t fooled her.

“I think so. I think I’ll just go on ahead and wait for the others.”

“I thought Paul was coming here”, she asked. Art flinched.

“He- no. No.”

“Alright. Well, do have the best time, darling, promise me that? And just call home if you want us to come pick you up; it does look like it might rain, but not until later. And remember, be home on time, alright? Your dad’s very punctual like that, you know.”

She walked around the table, which was already set for dinner, and straightened Art’s bowtie. “There now. And there’s some pocket money on your grandma’s chest of drawers in the hallway from your dad, if you kids wanted to get a soda or cocoa or ice cream or something."

“You’ll tell him thank you for me?”

“Of course, dear.” She smiled again and stroked a warm finger quickly over Art's cheek. 

In the hallway, Art was putting the pennies from his dad in the inner pocket of his blazer when he happened to look at himself in the mirror above the chest. Everything but his legs was visible. His pale face, his unruly hair. His crooked mouth and long arms. The suit was too big on his slender frame - it looked baggy around the chest, and the bowtie was loose and faced downwards. And his eyes looked like flashlights where the batteries had almost died out. How could any girl think he was good looking, let alone-

“Bye, Artie dear, have fun”, his mom called again from the kitchen. He tried to sound cheery when he told her “thanks, I will”, and then he left through the front door.

It was way too early, however - the others wouldn’t be there for another twenty minutes, but he didn’t want to wait around with his mom, and if he’d stayed in his room she would have kept asking him questions. So he left sooner than first intended and found a fence along the way on which he leaned awkwardly and waited. He did not want to be the first one there - in fact, he’d very much like to be the last so as to avoid as much small talk as possible. That’s why he planned on walking on at exactly the appointed time of meeting and so be just a few minutes later than the rest of the company. The streets were almost empty by now - people were just getting home in time for dinner and the evening news - and a light breeze was picking up gradually, playing with the leaves and the berries on the bushes along the sandy-colored sidewalk. The soft, undeniable smell of summer rain filled his lungs and his heart. 

Twenty-five minutes later, when Art turned the last corner on his route, only two figures were discernible on the road up ahead, beneath the crown of that old, familiar tree. It was Jane and Mary-Sue, and soon they were both waving cheerfully and calling his name across the street in their sweet and easy voices. Art knew he had to pretend from now on, otherwise he would ruin everything for everybody. He would have to soldier through just this one evening, and then he was free. Free? Free to do what, exactly? He had no clue, and he didn’t have the time to consider it just then, because his legs had somehow brought him to his destination. 

“Artie! Hello! Why, I thought you guys would never show”, Jane laughed as she caught Art’s hand and held it tight for a while before letting go. “Hey, where’s Paul, isn’t he with you?”

“No, he’s not.” Art looked quickly at Mary-Sue. “I thought he and you were coming here together?”

“No, he told us to meet you guys here. He said he’d pick you up first”, she answered, looking straight at him. 

Art soon recalled that this had in fact been their original plan, and that Paul must have gone to Art’s house just now and found him already gone. At the exact moment he remembered, he heard a clear voice in the near distance, in the direction he’d just come from. The voice called out to them with a breezy “hey”, and Art watched as the slightly worried look on Mary-Sue’s face blossomed into a beautiful smile that reached all the way to her bright, azure eyes. Art’s cheeks started burning instantly. He didn’t want to turn around. He wanted to run away. But he knew he couldn’t - he just couldn’t. So he did what he had to do. 

“Hi, guys”, Paul finally greeted them all smilingly, but only looking at Mary-Sue. “You”, he added quickly, hitting Art on the arm with the back of his hand, “you were supposed to meet me at your place, remember?”

“Yeah, I know, I totally for-“

“It’s this one here’s fault I’m late, you know”, Paul continued, facing the girls again. 

“Oh, it’s only a few minutes”, Mary-Sue said, still smiling like a toddler in a toy store. 

“Well, then, shall we”, added Jane and looked at Art.

Off they went, Anne taking Art’s arm, and Paul offering Mary-Sue his. He and Mary-Sue were soon a few steps ahead of the others, talking and laughing with their heads close together about something that Art couldn’t quite catch the contents of, even when Jane wasn’t talking over them about the weather or the admission tickets or Betty Smith having been stood up at the last minute. Art said yes and no in all the right places and even managed to laugh a little at something Jane said about girls’ dresses being so inconvenient for walking compared to boys’ suits. 

"But you look real good, though. I think I forgot to tell you", Art said. And he meant it. 

Jane did look amazing. Her satin dress was a deep pink with a rather low neck and a full, swirly skirt that left only her ankles and white pumps visible. Over her bare shoulders she wore a soft, snowy crochet cardigan, and her golden hair curled around her face, highlighting her pretty eyes and red lips. She was sure to turn heads when they entered the ball room, Art thought. So was Paul and Mary-Sue, because she looked just as lovely as her taller friend tonight, the baby blue coloring of her outfit and her chocolaty ponytail pleasantly contrasting Jane’s dress and hair. 

And then there was Paul. Art had so far avoided looking straight at him for fear of ending up staring inappropriately or - even worse - saying something complimentary either out loud or with his gaze - something of which Paul was sure to catch the meaning. From the little he'd gathered from the corner of his eye, however, and from what Art could see of Paul as he now walked behind him in the weak, white light of the fading summer evening, his friend was sure to break any heart he came across tonight. His suit was of a traditional dark gray shade and fit perfectly around his hips and broad shoulders. He had on a navy blue tie instead of a bowtie, wore the silver band ring from his grandfather on his left hand, and the tall curve of his hair would have made Elvis Presley himself ask for tips and tricks in front of the bathroom mirror. He looked well dressed, but still casual. He looked young, yet mature. Art thought it strange how Paul seemed to have grown somehow - all of a sudden he felt so different from the wide-eyed boy on Art's bed who'd freaked out about life on a regular basis and asked again and again for advice on how to talk to girls and avoid getting harassed by the sophomores. It was like he was coming out of a shell Art had never known was there, ready at last to take the world and everything in it by storm. He might still be grinning shyly to the girl on his arm, but he wasn't nervous anymore, or at least he didn't look that way; and Art should know. He had an odd sense of being left behind, of sitting in a railway station as the train passed by with Paul and everyone else on board but him. Art didn't even know where that train was headed or if he'd ever have another chance of getting on it. There was a future out there, somewhere, and for the first time in his life, the once so vivid and unobstructed image of Paul in that distant, anticipated scenario ahead was hazy, opaque, diminishing. Art wasn't sure if he even saw himself clearly in it anymore. 

It was not a long walk from the oak tree to the school, yet tonight Art thought it felt like they'd walked for hours and hours when at last, down the road, the tall main building of Forest Hills High, with all the windows lighted up for the occasion, towered over the trees in the newly renovated parklands surrounding it. The backdrop of the sky suddenly seemed so very dark when one was faced with the headlights of the rows cars dropping students off by the curb and the brightly colorful bulbs in the bushes and the trees on the lawn all around the crowded driveway. There was a gentle buzzing of excitement and anticipation in the air - Art could almost sense the nervous wonderings, the fast-beating hearts and sweaty palms of the boys and girls all headed towards the open front door as he and Jane tried to keep up with the others through the crowd. These were thoughts Art had never before had on his arrival at the midsummer dance, and now they were all his mind could focus on. He even missed Billy who passed by quite closely with Jenny Perkins proudly on his arm. But Art was too occupied then in wondering if there were others like him tonight - others who would rather be at home, or anywhere else for that matter, because they knew that the person they most wanted to dance with would never even consider asking them. He hoped there were others like him. The thought of being the only one was beginning to gnaw at the back of his mind, leaving marks inside of him that he was afraid others might come to see if he didn't spend all his energy on keeping them concealed. 

Once inside, the four of them, still linked in pairs, followed the slow, evenly moving stream of dark suits and fluffy dresses in the direction of the gymnasium where the dance was being held. Every year, the dance committee, consisting of students eager to have a say and teachers yearning for their lost youths, spend two full weeks transforming the large, empty gym, with the echo, the tall ceiling and the green and yellow sports lines on the floor, into a cozy, festive ballroom with a ticket stall, a bar and sitting area, a stage for the performing acts, a podium for handing out the awards of the evening and of course the spacious dance floor under arched red and white paper party strips, hundreds of dangling balloons and blinking purple and blue lights on crisscrossing cord strings. The music was already playing away when they finally reached the entrance, and the nice smell of perfumes and colognes which had filled the hallways just now was gone, and a hot, stuffy odor of warm, moving teenage bodies wearing too many layers inside on a warm summer evening had taken its place. The band on the little stage in the middle of the room, against the south-facing wall, was loud; it consisted of three older boys in black pants and white suit jackets, one on drums and two on guitars, and a mediocre lead singer screaming his lungs out in some old, half-recognizable rock 'n roll song. The dancing couples already on the floor, however, seemed to enjoy the tune and the performance heartily. Art was pleased to notice that Paul, too, despite all his attention having been on Mary-Sue since their rendezvous earlier, shot a quick, attentive glance at the band before moving along into the dim, rainbow-tinted atmosphere of the room. Perhaps, if nothing else, they'd at least always share a deep passion for music. 

The first part of the evening passed as Art had expected: Paul and Mary-Sue danced every dance together, swirling and laughing on the floor without a care in the world or a thought of anything or anyone. Paul knew most of the songs the band was playing by heart - from his position some feet away, with Jane in his arms, Art could see how he mouthed along with some of the words to the great pleasure and satisfaction of his dancing partner. She probably thought he was intending the lyrics for her, which come to think of it he no doubt was. Art tried to remember if he'd ever seen Paul this radiantly happy with him, but the monotonous beat of the drum bounced off the dark walls and made his forehead pound and his brain foggy, and all his memories were too far away. Jane's head was turned away from Art's and she hardly said a word as they moved statically along to the groovy rhythms, only smiling weakly whenever they bumped into another couple or a song ended and they had stop and clap until the music started again. About forty-five minutes into their evening, the four of them went to get refreshments at the bar serving nothing but sodas and pink punch that smelled like liquefied cotton candy. But it was nice to sit down - all of their cheeks already burned red and warm from the dancing and the heat, and the lights had made their eyes watery. Mostly, though, Art simply welcomed the distraction. When it was all four of them together, and the girls could talk to each other, Art didn't feel the constant pressuring need to entertain and keep up a conversation with Jane; not that he had done so very successfully tonight, but he'd still known that he should have, and failing miserably at it had made their dancing feel forced and awkward. Sipping quietly on his soda, sometimes biting a little on the straw like he did when he was a kid, Art turned his body towards the dancers still on the floor, most of whom where familiar, yet nameless faces. From the look of it they all seemed to be having a good time. Art shifted his weight then to lean on his other hand, and he caught a word or two of the conversation on the other side of the table - Mary-Sue was apparently having the time of her life (and who could blame her), while Jane's praise of the state of the room and the number of attendants and the groove of the band was more moderate. Paul was sitting on the same wooden bench as Art across from the girls; Art could feel his presence behind him, could sense his breathing and hear him indulge in the occasional gulp of coke. But he wasn't contributing to the others' conversation. Art considered turning around and saying something because it suddenly felt weird that they hadn't spoken two words to each other all night, but there was a problem - something Art had never had to deal with before, and especially not when it came to Paul: he had absolutely no idea what to say. They always used to talk, all the time, about everything and nothing, sharing every single thought and feeling and every little observation with each other. Now, no words, none whatsoever, came to Art's mind, and somehow this realization made their silence even more obvious, more real. At some point, while the girls were giggling at a tall girl's braided hair, Art couldn't take it anymore. He needed to get away, just for a little while, so he turned his head halfway round, careful not to include Paul in his peripheral, and said he'd go find the bathroom and be right back. To his great dismay, Paul immediately said "me, too" most vigorously. Art hardly had time to register how bored Jane looked when she nodded her reply before Paul was up and on his way and eagerly pulling Art with him. They had to push and wriggle their way through a large group of loud sophomores to get to the door at the far end of the room. One of them made Art trip on purpose, while another messed up his hair with his large, sticky hand and a snarky remark, earning him a roaring laugh from his class mates. Despite the immediate embarrassment, however, this was still the most fun Art had had all night, because Paul, so that they wouldn't get lost from each other in the crowd, had found Art's wrist with his soft, warm hand, and he held it tight, determinately leading the way to the calm, electric brightness of the adjoining hallway. 

When the second door leading to one of the main hallways closed behind them with a heavy clang, the music had become nothing but a deep, muffled humming, remote and soothing, and a cool draft from the stairs touched their moist faces and cleared Art's head. Rows and rows of coats and jackets covered the white-washed masonry on both sides of the burgundy linoleum floor - this must be where the wardrobe people carried the many overcoats currently under their protection - and far away, down by the back exit, a shadowy silhouette of two bodies moved rhythmically, soundlessly, against the wall. Besides this unified specter, they were the only two people there. Art turned to Paul and saw that he too had noticed the presence of the distant figures. He didn't bother looking at them long, though, before he whispered a quick "come on" and headed for the stairs. Art followed him mindlessly.

"We're not supposed to go down there. This whole area's closed off tonight."

"I know", Paul answered, "but I want to talk to you without- someone interrupting."

"But no one even goes back here when the dance's on."

"Somebody does."

They had reached the basement when a hoarse voice from above suddenly thundered down over them, disturbing the quietness of the stairway with a metallic echo that seemed to rattle the iron balustrades and cut like a razor into the slippery floor below. 

"Is somebody there?"

Art was so sure he'd had a heart attack; dizzy from the shock, his hands instinctively caught hold of Paul's arm as his temples went cold and his heart was in his mouth. Paul was shaking, too, Art notice, and neither of them dared to even breathe for fear of being discovered. Only after god knows how many painful seconds did the voice abandon its hunch, and they finally noticed the sound of a light footfall slowly disappearing back to where it came two floors up. They waited a little while longer just to be sure before they both let out a much needed sigh, Art's knees all wobbly and his hands clammy. He quickly let go of Paul's arm then, and their eyes met briefly in the dark; Art was sure Paul was about to burst out laughing, so he quickly pulled him along to the secret bathroom stall he'd occupied too frequently earlier in the day and locked the door behind them. Paul was soon resting his forehead against Art's chest and giggling violently, his whole body bouncing up and down and making Art sway slightly in the tight space between the familiar green walls. He couldn't help but laugh a little himself, either. 

"We are so good at not getting caught", Paul said after the worst of the fit was over. Art was done laughing by then. 

Paul lifted his head. "What is this place?"

"Bathroom."

"Yeah, I can smell that. How'd you know about it?"

"I don't know." Art tried sounding as nonchalant as possible so that Paul wouldn't ask any more questions. 

"Well, anyway, it's gross", Paul continued, "and I can't see anything." 

"Believe me, that's a good thing."

"Yuk, man!" 

Art chuckled. "Well, don't lick the floor, then."

"Hey, are you smiling or is the poor light down here playing tricks on my eyes?"

Art was glad that the lights were dim because his cheeks flushed red at Paul's words. It dawned on him then how close they had been standing all along, and even when Paul backed up against the door (perhaps he had noticed the intimacy, too), they were still way too close for comfort. Art couldn't very well suggest they leave, though, when he was the one who'd brought them here. But he was suddenly afraid that Paul would think there was some kind of ulterior motive behind them cramming into the tiny, little space. Because there really, truly wasn't. Was there? It seemed a relevant problem then that Paul was blocking Art's only available chance of escape. 

"It's just that you don't seem to be having a very good time", Paul went on. "And neither does Jane. You two not getting along or something?" 

"No - I mean yes. I guess we are. It's just, well..." Art wasn't even hesitant to talk about it, he just genuinely didn't know what was going on between them or how he felt about it. 

"Well, Mary-Sue’s swell! I tell you, she is so funny. I didn't know how funny - and she looks real cute tonight, don't you think?"

"Yes, she does", Art said.

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about", Paul added. "You said one isn't supposed to kiss a girl on the first date until the end of the evening."

"Right."

"Right, but what if she wants you to kiss her earlier, could that somehow be arranged without, you know, giving off the wrong impression or something?"

"She said she wanted you to kiss her", Art asked.

"Well", Paul's said, "not in those words exactly, but she sort of... Suggested it'd be nice. Really, she did. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here asking you.” 

Art looked down. Why was Paul asking him this? How could he? How could he ask him as if the past week didn't happen at all? As if they hadn't made love last night in his bedroom, with the moonshine filtering through the little window as they held each other close, hearts pressed against each other, beating as one? Was Paul consciously choosing not to think about all this, or had it really meant so little to him? 

"If she wants you to kiss her, just kiss her." Art still couldn't look up when he said the words. Forming them hurt all over, in such a strange way that wasn't physical at all. 

Paul didn't answer him, he just stood there, those beautiful dark eyes piercing through their silence. When he said Art's name, Art was suddenly back in his blue room on the first floor, the lazy, white afternoon stretching calmly before his eyes. Paul was on the soft bed next to him, his voice pleading and serious in a way that Art was sure he could get addicted to. 

His brain barely had time to register that his hands had grabbed Paul's face and that his lips were kissing Paul's mouth fiercely, desperately, before he was pushed back with such force that he knocked the back of his knees against the toilet and almost lost his balance. 

"Cut it out, Artie! Geez!”

Paul started fidgeting with the lock and mumbling something unintelligible that Art’s mind appeared to be blocking out. His ears were ringing with the frantic pounding of his heart, and all he could think was how much he wanted to be dead.

Already half-way stormed out of the bathroom, Paul turned around, with his hands first in his hair, then on his hips, then balled up into tight fists by his sides. His voice was uncertain to begin with, even if he did sound angry. 

“Don’t ever do that again, okay? We… We can’t do that anymore. Don’t you see?”

Art neither saw nor heard. He wouldn’t even come fully out of the stall. Paul walked back to it and looked straight at him, and Art interpreted the sharp deflating sound of his breath as an upset Paul trying to calm himself. That was supposed to be a good thing, but somehow it didn't feel like then. 

“It’s just… It’s not right, alright?”

A pause, then:

“I know.”

Another pause. A longer one this time. 

“Well. Come on, then. Let’s get back up.”

When Art didn’t budge, his eyes still locked on the shiny shoes against the greasy tiles, Paul left without another word. It seemed like such a big deal, Art’s first rejection. He’d heard about those, read about them, seen them in movies. They were supposed to be nasty and sad and unfair, but Art had no such feelings in his chest at the moment; he didn’t feel anything but empty. Alone. He sat on the toilet seat with his head resting against the wall a little over half an hour, waiting for the tears to come. They were supposed to flow freely by now, weren’t they? Surely that’s what tears did when you had your heart broken? But maybe that was just it - Art’s heart wasn’t broken at all. It was gone. Someone had taken it from him. Stolen it, unseen, from its safe place behind his ribs, and that only in a matter of days. Now it was kept carelessly under a narrow, squeaking bed somewhere while the world just kept turning. Was Art never to feel anything ever again? Was this what life had in store for him? His gaze found its way to the poor comfort of the letters on the bottom of the door. 

The rest of the dance, which for Art’s part wasn’t very long, passed by in a strange dream-like haze of blinking purple lights and slow, melancholy tunes. When Art at last emerged from the cold quietness of the basement, the repulsiveness of the tackily festooned ballroom, the estrangement of the shapeless couples glued together on the dark, dense floor, made him sick. And as he watched a smiling, blushing Jane take the hand of some tall, dark, polished member of the football team and disappear into the crowd of silently swaying dancers, he buttoned his blazer and found the door out. 

He called his mom, speaking in an involuntarily low, shaky voice, from the phone booth to the left of the main building just outside. The rain and the wind had picked up, and he was already shivering as he dialed his home number and waited forever for the voice at the other end. She was kind enough not to ask any questions; all she said was that his dad would be there right away. Art spent another solitary ten minutes on the inky-dark street before a pair of pale orange highlights cut through the night air. He was saved. “Let’s get you home”, his dad said, sounding something between rightly confused and greatly indignant on behalf of his son. When Art was greeted by the silent sympathy of his mom’s blue eyes in the hallway, the tears came at last. And they would not stop coming. He cried piteously on his mom’s shoulder, on the floor of his bedroom, in the windowsill, on his pillow, in the bathroom. All night and all the next morning, the anguish and the sobbing came in violent bursts that he had no control over, until, at last, there was not a single, salty drop left in him, and he lay exhausted, motionless, at the foot of his bed facing the bedstead with swollen, unfocused eyes. His mind was blank, but it felt good not think for a change. His storage of self-pity and self-doubt was all used up, to the point where even his muscles were beginning to relax and his head to clear. When his mom brought him tea and cookies at noon, as the clouds rolled speedily by, allowing the sun to peek out with shortening intervals and light up the blue walls, she stroked his frizzy hair and tidied up around his room, collecting his suit and shoes and bowtie from the floor where he’d thrown them at some point during the night. 

“She danced with someone else”, was all the explanation he offered her. He felt he had to say something - she was being so nice about the whole thing. He was embarrassed, acting like a spoiled little boy who believed himself the center of the universe and who acted up whenever he didn’t get what he wanted, but his mom somehow didn’t seem to think so. She just nodded and pressed her lips together before she left as if she already knew everything she needed to. 

Paul didn’t come around or call that Saturday. Which was strange since they always hang out on Saturdays, but less strange in the light of the events of the night before. Art was glad he was left to himself, even if he was worried that Paul might be really mad at him. Or maybe Paul just needed some time, too. Art had to tell himself that this was the reason for his friend's absence, otherwise it would have been too unbearable. 

Sunday, at some point late in the afternoon when the streets were still bright and warm and the whole of Queens seemed to have been tugged away with their dinner trays in front of the television in a hopeless effort to restore energy for the coming Monday morning, Art heard the familiar tapping on the little window from his seat at the desk. The window was wide open, and usually Paul just came barging in after announcing his presence, but this time there was a careful hesitancy in his manners, and he didn’t start climbing through until Art had turned around and told him, silently, that is was okay. 

“Hey”, Art said.

“Hey.” Paul’s tone made it sound almost like a question.

“What are you doing”, Paul continued after a short while in which the silence really wasn’t as awkward or unpleasant as Art had feared it would be.

“Just catching up on some things. Science, for instance.”

“Oh, god, don’t mention it! I’m, like, four chapters behind, and I didn’t get a word of the last one I read.”

Art chuckled a little and shook his head. Maybe this was not what he wanted; maybe it never again would be. But it was what he could get, and so he had decided yesterday that he would take what was offered and forget all the rest. Forget the sex, the kisses, the hugs, all of that. Well, maybe he could get a brief hug from time to time, but it would be a very different kind of hug from what his body had gotten so very used to this past week. Still, the closeness was all that mattered. The friendship, his friendship with Paul, was worth making such a sacrifice for. He would rather be around Paul, talk to him, laugh with him, sing with him, and not have any romantic privileges, than he would go through life without this incredible person by his side - this incredible person that was both shy and proud, hilarious and pensive, right and wrong. Art truly wanted things to go back to the way they were, even if it would be difficult. And as he chuckled and shook his head on that late Sunday afternoon in his blue room on the first floor, he knew that Paul wanted it, too. 

“Could you help me maybe? With the science, I mean”, Paul asked.

Art smiled and nodded. 

“Thanks, man. Oh, and I wanted to tell you: there’s a new music store opened downtown. We should go check it out tomorrow after school.”

“Sure, yeah. Let’s.” 

******

"I'm sorry, Artie."

Art raised his head and stared into Paul's eyes, urgently seeking answers in the familiar features as if Paul had just told him that the sun and the moon were about to collide. Maybe they were. Maybe they already had. 

"I'm sorry. Everything is just so… We were- and now…”

Now Paul was the one to look down. Art waited for him to go on, but the waiting seemed endless, ruthless, and for once he just wanted to let the past be. For once, maybe they could just- surely they could start over again. People did. New beginnings happened all the time. Art put his hand on Paul's shoulder, trying to convey what he was feeling. But the tension he found beneath the white t-shirt was too heartbreaking, too unreachable. 

"Paul. Paul. Look at me."

He did. They looked at each other, and the sun and the moon and all the planets in the universe might as well have collided. Beyond the river, invisible stars spread like an endless blanket across the old country. Somewhere out there, lovers were united at last, and two heartbeats became one. Somewhere, happily ever after was somebody's ending, somebody's truth. The room was blue and quiet like the ocean before a storm. 

"Kiss me”, Paul said.

But Art knew then and there that this wasn't enough anymore. 

"No."

"Why?"

"You told me that before, remember? You told me to kiss you. I'm sure you remember how that went."

"It's not my fault you-"

"No, it's not. It's not your fault, it's my own. Or no one's, I don't know. Which is kind of worse. But I'm so tired, Paul. Tired of thinking what if and if only and maybe someday." 

"I said one kiss", Paul said matter-of-factly.

Art let go of Paul's shoulder then. It was like leaving your snug bed on a cold and rainy morning, only without the knowledge that you might return to its warmth and safety that same night. Or maybe it was more like jumping out of an airplane. 

"I know, but... But you're seeing someone, and I'm seeing someone, and we're both incredibly lucky." Boring. And a lie. "And I... I just can't do it again. Not like this." Better. 

"You say you're tired of thinking about the past, and yet you keep saying 'not again' as if history's going to repeat itself on you, forever", Paul said, his voice less soft. "This is now, Artie.” 

Art was not allowed to reply before Paul was talking again, faster, less sure.

"And by the way, whatever you may think, you were always my first choice. Always. Everyone else was always second to you, and if you've thought otherwise all these years, well, then you really don't know me at all. Which then means nobody does." 

Steel brown swirled before watery blue. The city lights twinkled somewhere in between. 

Then Paul got up suddenly and turned his back towards the city, the stars, the united lovers. He grabbed the back of his neck with his left hand, keeping his eyes on the floor. It rested there while he prepared to go on.

"And please don't forget that I had to deal with the consequences, too", he continued, quietly adding "we were never the same again, were we?"

Art remembered the time, about three months after the midsummer dance, when Paul had been pretty upset because Mary-Sue had told him she had feelings for Kenny O’Brian. They were in Paul’s room on a cloudy, humid day after school. Suddenly Paul had kissed Art’s neck, just like that. One moment miserable, the next tenderly caressing Art’s shoulder and back. Art let him unbutton part of his shirt and suck at the skin just above his collarbone, his jaw, his chest. Paul began to breathe more heavily, and he was standing so close that Art could feel his erection growing by the second. When Paul reached for Art’s zipper, Art took a step back and mustered a firm “no”. Paul calmed himself quickly, scarlet with embarrassment and indignation, and it would be years and years before they were together like that again: the day Art came to England to live with Paul there for a while, the night Art left for Mexico, some early Wednesday morning in late ’75, and again in ’77 after a night of uncharacteristically heavy drinking. 

"We grew up", Art said.

"No, we didn't. We grew apart." A short, awful laugh. "Intimacy sure had a strange effect on us."

"It didn't seem to have any effect on you", Art couldn't help but add, instantly regretting his frankness. He knew very well what it would trigger. Paul did not do well with accusations, in any shape or form. Art wasn't even sure what he was saying, but Paul still seemed to understand him perfectly. The same old story and all that. 

He turned around to face Art again, his eyes alight with the accumulated hurt of twenty-five long years. Or maybe he was just tired and pissed off. "No effect? What do you think I should have done, Artie? Tell me that! Do you think I should have asked you to dance in front of the entire school? Kissed you goodnight at the gate with your parents watching? Gone out with you, in that place? In those days? Is that what I should have done? Do you think we would ever have had even the tiniest bit of the kind of success we did if we'd acted that way? Been so careless? And don't tell me you'd rather have shared sloppy teenage kisses in the janitor's closet than become superstars, because I'm not going to believe that! I won't believe that!"

Shrouded in purple darkness, in the middle of the dance floor, Paul held a girl in a blue dress tight around her waist, their plumb cheeks resting sweetly together as the band played "Love Me Tender". 

"I don't care what you believe, Paul." 

"You know what", Paul returned, "I don't care, either. I'm sick of this; it never stops. Never. So I'm stopping it now." 

"Again."

"Shut up! Shut up! God! You know what, I hope it does hurt, being in love with me. I hope you never fall out of it, and I hope it breaks your heart!"

What more was there to say, really? They'd jumped the shark - again. They'd hurt each other. Again. Their words were poisonous daggers, their hearts forever unprotected from sudden attacks. A lifetime had gone by since they built pillow forts and spent their pocket money on chocolates and hard candy on their way home from school. They would never again be as free and unaware as those kids, and that was okay. But everything that happened after that? Everything that happened after that first kiss, would they ever be able to let it go? Was there a Paul and Art beyond the fighting and the stolen hearts, beyond the highs and the hurt? Art did not know. He only knew that he wasn’t happy, not even close. But when he was with Paul, he somehow tended to forget that. 

Art was beyond the physical sensations of emotions now. The tears that had burned in his tired eyes had dried out; the awkward lump in his throat was gone; the butterflies had all died. All there was left was the other kind of emotion, the dull, aching pain that seemed to come to life outside his body, all around him, everywhere. The one pain that never would go away. It merged with his body and found a resting place somewhere in the back of his head, unseen and unheard, appearing on good days only to remind him not to smile too much; that it may be sunny in the morning, but in the evening rain will fall. It was such a familiar feeling by now that Art hardly noticed its sudden presence tonight, on the couch. It was a part of him; in fact, he couldn't imagine life without.

"What do you want, Paul?"

Paul seemed more upset at the question and the frankness of Art's tone than he had at anything all night, even the declaration of you-know. He tuned out somehow and looked straight ahead, expressionless, with his hands dangling loosely by his sides. Was he even breathing? And what was he staring at - what did his inner eye show him? Or was he seeing nothing at all? Was that how Art made him feel? 

"If I've always been your first choice", Art ventured, "why have we been so much apart? We're not fifteen anymore - and it's not the 50's." Art felt more in charge of himself, of the situation, than before. He didn't need or want anything from Paul; couldn't Paul see that? He just wanted to know the truth, if there was one. He wished to hear Paul tell him once and for all what was going on in his mind, possibly his heart. Was there room there for anyone but himself, Art wondered as he watched Paul's eyes refocus and gaze towards the river, across the sea of lights.

"Feels like another world, doesn't it", Paul finally said. "High school, being fifteen. I mean, it was so long ago; it's almost like it happened to someone else. Do you ever feel that way?" He turned around and looked at Art as he spoke the last words. 

"No. No, I don't. I remember everything."

Paul snorted a short, bitter laugh. "I tend to remember only the bad stuff. Why is that, do you think?"

"Perhaps it's easier that way", Art suggested. 

"But we had some good times. I know that. I just... Don't think about them."

"We had lots."

Paul was beginning to smile a little. A real smile. It made him look his age, not young, but not old, either. 

"But I do... You know", Paul said. "I always did. I just didn't feel like I could do anything about it. Guess I still don't."

"It's okay", Art said. 

"No, it isn't."

"No, it isn't."

They both laughed. Art liked how their voices sounded together in the still room. 

"Suppose I asked you to dance now? You know, to make up for past mistakes", Paul suddenly ventured, his eyes on Art one moment and on the floor the next. 

"Suppose I said yes."

"Suppose you did."

"Then I'd really be stupid as everybody thinks." Art felt a kind of forgotten heat spread in his chest; his favorite thing in the world besides singing with Paul had got to be making Paul laugh. Even as tired as he obviously was, he looked more beautiful than any person, man or woman, Art had ever laid eyes on. Paul knew he was handsome now, or that many people found him so, but only Art knew that he still didn't feel it. 

"Nobody thinks that", Paul giggled. "If anything, I think we're both stupid around each other. It's kind of our image."

"I'm starting to see that."

Art got up and took Paul's left hand in his right. The other he wrapped carefully around the slim waist, placing it right where Paul's t-shirt covered the rim of his black suit pants. Paul snuggled close, holding gently onto one of Art's shoulders and resting his chin on the other. There was no music, only the music playing in their minds. Art wouldn't be surprised if they both heard the same melody as they span softly, harmoniously, on the spot in the middle of the floor, with New York as their blue and blinking backdrop. 

Dancing with Paul tonight in his living room wasn't anything like it would have been at the annual midsummer dance at Forest Hills High School back in '57. Too much had happened between then and now for it to be a magical thing. Art wasn't wearing shiny new shoes, and Paul's hair wasn't glossily black. They were not young and free and filled to the brim with hopes and dreams and unsung songs, but tonight Art preferred it like this, preferred Paul like this. Yes, they had grown apart - there were many things going on in Art's life these days that Paul knew nothing about and never would - and yet here they were, still together somehow, someway. It was Paul's head resting on Art's chest, no one else's - it was his hand squeezing Art's tightly. Theirs’ was the kind of friendship that stood the test not just of fighting and separation and hurt but of time itself. And that was something to be proud of after all. Silently sharing the same fears and all that. 

After a few minutes of being perfectly lost in each other’s arms, they were kissing. Just like that. No fireworks, no drama. Just the two of them, catching up. 

"You remember the last time we did that", Paul asked when they broke apart. "In that creepy bathroom in the basement, at school?"

Art smiled. "You hadn't forgotten. I kind of hoped you had."

"Like I told you, I remember all the bad stuff."

"Yeah. That was bad", Art chuckled as he brushed his nose against Paul's, relishing in the familiarity of the gesture. 

"It was kind of bad, yes", Paul laughed. "God, you have no idea how much I wanted to kiss you back. It was killing me. Literally took all of my strength to push you away."

"I didn't know."

"Don't look so surprised, Artie. I meant what I said before, you know. I was just as crazy about you." Paul voice was serious now, serious and tender. 

"I wasn't crazy about you, I was in love with you. I loved you."

"I know", Paul said. "And like I said, me, too."

He reached up and kissed Art again, just as sweetly as before. 

It was true - they hadn't shared a kiss since Art's poor attempt at one less than an hour into that fateful school dance all those years ago. The times they'd been together over the years had been strictly sexual, a deep and desperate need to get off with the other person for whatever reason was foremost in their minds at the time, and neither of them had ever attempted to, at any point, initiate kissing of any kind. Art hadn't wanted to because it would have made the empty bed he knew he was waking up to that much colder; Paul must have had his own reasons, but Art had never known or needed to analyze them. 

Paul was kissing Art's face all over now, breathing in rasp intakes of air, whispering incoherently. "I love you. I love you. Oh, god, god, I love you so much."

But Art knew the words didn't mean let's-run-away-together. In all likeliness, they meant something in line with you-have-to-leave-now. 

You-have-to-leave-now-or-I-will-never-be-able-to-let-you-go. 

When Art did leave about five minutes later, Paul had tears in his eyes, and Art was beyond feeling sorry for himself. All he could feel now was pity for his friend, a man on top of the world in an industry virtually everyone would kill to make it only half as well in, yet so utterly unable to act upon his gut instincts, to take that smallest of steps towards something very much akin to happiness. How could he, at forty, still favor his, what, reputation? And not the desires of his own heart? Art knew he wouldn't hesitate one second if Paul said the word, but he also knew that this was just a fantasy, a dream-scenario, utopia. After changes upon changes and all that. 

Art could not stay to watch the first tear fall down that beautiful face, so he spun around in a flash and left without another word. But it was too late. The vision of Paul crying had already entered in his mind, and it made him nauseous with old anger and even older grief. Paul hardly ever cried - Art had seen it a few times only, but the intensity then had been enough to leave a permanent mark. The distant image of Paul sitting, hunched, disfigured, on the low, square coffee table of his old apartment with tears streaming down his flushed cheeks and hands covering his mouth so as to mute the agonizingly inhuman sounds he was making, mercilessly blurred before Art's inner eye as he found his way quickly down the stairs. The flight to Mexico had felt endlessly long afterwards. 

His ride home now in the first cab he met outside felt just as long, or longer. Art was conscious of how every single second, the wheels of the car took him further and further away from what he wanted most in the whole world; even if they were only half an hour away from each other every day, it was as if an infinite ocean of lost years, failed marriages and broken records stretched its darkening waters between them. Nothing was simple anymore, and they'd gotten tangled all up in the world somewhere along the way, their hearts no longer conjoined as they had been on a warm, white summer afternoon in a blue room on the first floor of an ordinary suburban townhouse in Queens. Five albums now existed that in some weird, sadly poetic way told the story of them: of the boys they were no more, of the men they thought they had to be. Those albums would always be there, for them and for the whole world to see - a constant reminder of what was and what could never be again; of their fight for a friendship that had defined them both in ways that were just now beginning to dawn on Art in bright colors. He was seeing things more clearly tonight. 

The taste of Paul still lingered on his lips as he rested his head against the window and let the towering, neon city pass by in silence. It was late in the evening. The streets grew darker and emptier as the cab drove on. 

******

"Well, what do you want to do, then?"

"I want to write, you know I do. I'll write, and you'll sing."

"You know what, that sounds better than my plan. Let's do yours."


End file.
